La Diva Assassina
by TheSopranoinShadow
Summary: A Modern Day Fic. Christina Daae leads two different lives: famous opera singer by day, and assassin by night. Placed on a long term assignment by the "Madame" of the Organization, Christine is stuck with an eccentric composer both day and night. With the nightmares of her past never far behind her, will the man behind the mask be just a composer, or something more? ON HIATUS
1. Chapter One

Hello all,

So please take a look at my profile. I was originally known as BloodRoseAngel91, however, because of this site's determination to not let me log back into that account, I'm back after several years and trying to rekindle my passion for writing. Currently, I'm in the process of reworking this fanfic, which was originally called _Two Angels in the Night._ There are a few changes, for example, I've decided to keep Christine as an opera singer instead of a pop singer, since that's what I have more experience in.**Please don't try to bash me about plagiarism. I'm not plagiarizing... Just trying to finish something that I started a long, long time ago. **

See you at the bottom!

Ever yours,

Soprano in Shadow

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><p><em>It's not everyday when you look at someone and not know that they're an assassin. Christine Daae- also known as Cat to her friends was one of them. Though she only had one real friend in the world. She couldn't risk having a large assortment of friends because of her two lives. An operatic diva by day. A killer by night. She was two different people, with two different worlds in her sight. So who would suspect that one of the country's greatest singers was also a cold-blooded assassin. But she was also in love, with a man she had never met. And so began her day, or should we say, her reign in darkness...<em>

The man smiled sickeningly at her in the bar, inside Christine felt like throwing up but Cat knew what to do.

"My shift's done in ten. What d'ya say we go over to my flat?" Christine whispered in his ear as she handed him a drink. He nodded eagerly not knowing who this woman was. But Christine knew _all _about him: Peter Russauv- one of the world's most prominent weapons dealer. He traded broken weapons for deadly ones that he had created himself. But where he was a genius at machinery, he was an idiot when it came to women and seduction.

Christine sighed as she wiped dry a beer glass and glanced at the clock. She had just been employed for three days, and already her time as a bartender had come to an end_. 4_ _minutes to_ _go. _She glanced at her appearance in the wall length mirror behind the bar, and studied her blonde hair and blue eyes and smiled. One that did not quite reach her eyes.

No one had even assumed that she, a young lyric soprano, was a highly trained assassin imported from England years ago after her training was complete. No one _normal_ could ever know. She would never be able to lead a normal life. But then again, with her past, who would want to?

Smiling again at the man, she mentally reminded herself to find her clear eyes contacts and to wash out the temporary hair dye. After tomorrow, she would be going on another tour to sing and hunt down her prey. A dull ache settled in her throat as she looked past the blubbering drunk Russian and settled on a couple flirting in a dark corner.

Never again.

She had firmly told herself a long time ago to not put herself in a relationship with a man, it helped her to keep her icy stature. _5... 4...3...2...1... let the show begin._

"Andre, I'm done for the night." Untying the apron, she tossed it under the counter, and replaced it with a long black coat. "Oh, and by the way, I quit." Christine added coolly as she clasped her prey's hand leaving the bar and entering the night, giggling.

Leading him down a narrow alleyway, she allowed him to push her against a crumbled down building as he began kissing her neck, muttering incoherent syllables. Closing her eyes, she willed herself to resist the urge to push him away, her hands clenched against the brick wall.

His lips moving upward brought her back to the moment, as he tried to make contact with her lips, in a drunken haze of affection, but quickly she pushed him away. In her nineteen years of living, a guy hadn't kissed her since…_ him_, and kissless she'd certainly remain.

A short whimper erupted from his throat, as she playfully kept him at arms length, inwardly trying to avoid making a face at his rancid breath. "Now, now, now Russauv," Christine cooed, "don't spoil my fun."

Grasping his hand in her own, she led him farther down the alley, and at once Peter was suspicious. "Baby, no—", he began to protest, but was cut short by Christine's finger against his lips.

"Don't worry, babe, my flat's at the end of this alley." She said playfully. "It's just a shortcut, darling. And then we'll be all alone." Giggling she continued leading him farther into the alley as she leaned up against his arm. "Want me to tell you a secret?"

Peter nodded dumbly as he stepped closer to her. She pushed him away from her and turned sharply, pulling out a dagger in the process.

"You won't ever see it." she said calmly, and plunged it into his chest. He slumped to the ground and a minute later, Christine checked for a pulse. Nothing.

With a cold smirk she began ripping material off of his shirt to stop the blood from leaving tracks, when a voice hit her ear.

"It seems mademoiselle, that we were sent for the same man." A rich baritone voice swung through the air, as a man in black slacks and a long sleeved shirt approached her. When he came closer, she saw the black half mask he wore covering his eyes.

"But the real questions is: are we on the same side?" He drew out a long blade, grasping it by the hilt, which was encircled by a web of silver.

Crouching, Christine's eyes narrowed as she reached behind her back pulling out a pair of _daisho_ from within her long jacket, silently thanking the Organization for creating such a subtle outerwear design.

Grasping each in hand, she began to attack furiously as he calmly blocked each blade's movement of his own. He seemed bored, as though he was playing with her was hardly worth the effort.

"Who are you?" she managed to ask as she side- stepped his blade as it whistled through the chilly wind.

"My friends call me by my name. But my enemies know me as The Phantom. And yours?"

"The Angel of Music flutters her wings against the calm wind, but in a second she becomes the Angel of Death: quick and silent."

He chuckled at her response as he jumped away from her angry pair of blades and responded with a mocking bow. "What an _adorable_ little phrase." Her blade sailed through the spot he had just inhabited, as he stepped out of her way. "Well it's lovely to meet you _Angel_, but you bore me. I propose a match: two out of three hits. Winner claims the spoils." He said motioning to the dead body.

Christine shook her head as she moved in front of her victim, as if making her claim.

"It was my assignment and I killed him. I have every right to claim his death for my 'people'." Christine snapped referring to the Organization.

The masked man smirked at her childish views. "Ah, but I never said I would let you return with him alive. Nice outfit by the way."

Rolling her eyes, Christine couldn't help but think to berate Andre for picking out her attire for the kill. She had insisted that the leather leggings, knee high boots and midriff-showing tank would be too much, but yet _again_, he had decided not to listen.

She paused for a moment, before making her move ripping part of his sleeve open, where she could see a blood rose tattooed on his shoulder.

She stood there shocked, staring at the same tattoo that she had on her right shoulder. Right then, her pursuer took his moment and slashed her stomach, as blood dripped out of the injury, startling her from her observation.

Wincing as she moved away from the threat of his blade, she chuckled as she began circling him.

"I might as well know your name. I'll find out anyway when I get back to the Organization." She took off her long duster, and he stared at her quizzically. _Was she trying to seduce him_? As she turned around he saw that next to the right strap of her black (and rather short, might he add) tank top was the exact same rose, except in dark silver.

"How did you come to get this assignment?" He asked bewildered. _Why would two agents be needed for one kill?_

She shrugged. "Andre and Firmin are my contacts. They let me know when I have a new "client." Otherwise I'm busy with a daytime job. Your name?"

"Erik." That was all he could manage. Here he was dueling an impressive assassin who was on his own side, and that's all he could say. No wonder he was considered such a recluse.

"Well a pleasure to meet you Erik, but I must take my leave." She picked up the body and shrugged it over her shoulder.

In a second he was in front of her standing closely. Too close for her own comfort. "But you have yet to tell me your own name," he purred, his warm breath brushing against her own face. "I'd consider that rude, especially after having the pleasure of crossing blades with such a spitfire." She growled at the smirk that was on his face.

"Why? For all I know_, you _may be my next assignment." She jumped up onto the recycling bin and disappeared into an abandoned building, leaving behind one of the _daisho_. He picked it up, the silver blade a contrast to his black gloves. Embossed on both sides of the tip of the blade was a rose.

He smiled. Oh this would be such fun, indeed.


	2. Chapter Two

_Hello there!_

_Just wanted to upload the first two chapters this evening. I'll have the third chapter up in a day or so. I plan on actually writing a chapter-by-chapter synopsis in order to keep this going strong. So what do we think about the gorgeous masked man? Should he be trusted, or is he a threat? Really hope you guys are liking the revisions I've been making!_

_Ever yours, _

_The Soprano in Shadow_

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><p>"<em>Why<em> was there another agent there, Andre?" Christine stormed into the hotel room, flinging off her long coat onto the back of an armchair. Andre, one of her contacts and undercover boss, lounged on the sofa sorting through various paperwork while waiting up for her to return. Confused, Andre put down the papers he had been skimming, his interest piqued.

"Cat, I didn't know of anyone joining you tonight, and neither did Firmin. So don't go running to him. I just tucked him in, and he's finally asleep. Go to headquarters tomorrow morning while we pack up. Figure out what happened and then go train for a bit. Just make sure you get to New York by tomorrow evening." The man in his forties pointed to the page he had just signed. "On the upside, the tickets for _Don Juan Triumphant_ are being sold like mad." Christine grinned. She loved her two lives.

Then she frowned, fingering a rebellious lock of hair. "Now to get the dye out of my hair..."

...

The next morning, Christine found herself striding furiously through Headquarters as she made her way to "Madame", the leader of the Organization. Barely sleeping the night before, her mind had been churning as she had tried to determine the exact reason _why_ someone else had been sent to "second" her target.

The only good thing about the previous evening was the return over her curly mass of dark auburn hair, her now cold hazel eyes holding nothing but anger as she punched in her identification number on the panel. In response, the bulletproof glass door slid open as Madame looked up from signing paperwork.

Antoinette Giry was the best of the best. Fearless and trained from when she could walk, the leader of the Organization held love for no one, save for her blood daughter, Meg, and her adopted daughter Christine. Normally in contact with the Contacts of each member of the Organization, only the most elite assassins ever dared to speak with her face to face.

"Christine. You're supposed to be on a plane. Can you _ever_ listen to orders?" Antoinette sighed as Christine scowled at her. While the young Daae may have been the only daughter of one of her closest friends, it didn't mean that she had to test the elder woman's patience.

"I need to know if you trust me, Madame Giry. I need to know that you don't think that I'll turn against the Organization, and that you can trust me to get my job done!" Christine said, crossing her arms as her cheeks began to warm in anger.

Antoinette was taken aback. _Had something gone wrong last night?_ "Did your client escape? Did someone try to kill you?" Antoinette whispered, suddenly worrying about why Christine would suddenly have such an outburst.

"Why was someone sent to second me last night? I said I would get the job done, and I did! The client has been taken care of, and then someone from the Organization tried to bring him in." Christine pouted. "And on top of that, he took my other blade!"

"Who was he? Are you sure he was one of our?" Antoinette asked. She hadn't sent anyone out after Christine. _So why did someone else show up?_

"He had the dark red tattoo. Said his name was Erik." Christine grumbled as she pulled her tank up showing the wound that the masked menace had left her.

Antoinette's eyes grew wide. "You saw Erik last night? But- but- You're not supposed to meet…" She trailed off as she noticed that Christine wasn't paying attention, and instead flipping through some of the upcoming client files that Antoinette had already assigned. Apparently the hyped up brunette forgot the reason she had interrupted her in the first place.

The elder Giry rolled her eyes. Christine was never one to continuously pay attention.

"Christine!" The brunette jumped at her name being shouted.

"I'm sorry, Madame. Got distracted…" Christine said, rubbing her hand on the back of her neck, embarrassed.

"So I noticed. Well, I never sent Erik out last night. Maybe there was some miscommunication. I'll... well, I'll check with his contact and see what she knows." Christine sighed and nodded, expecting this to happen.

"Just tell his contact to keep him away from me from now on—I might mistake him as a client, the way he went after me." Christine said, as she walked out of the greatly feared Madame's office. Antoinette frowned as she guiltily watched the brunette leave her office. Now was not the time to tell Christine the truth about Erik...

Still somewhat annoyed by the whole situation, Christine went to the women's locker room, and glancing in the mirror as she put her hair up into a scruffy low ponytail.

Leaving her feet bare, she changed out of her jeans, instead going for a pair of cotton leggings that would allow her to benefit from more flexibility. A few of the other girls stared at her odd appearance, but she ignored them as she walked to the training field.

"Cat!" Meg ran over to Christine after she had finished her warm- ups. Christine smiled and returned the hug. "Andre called me last night about your encounter with Erik. What was he like?" Meg asked curious about the mysterious man.

Christine shook her head in a confused manner as she began to move through her series of daily stretches. "Hey Meg, I'm going to go train for a bit. I'll catch you later, okay? We'll talk more about the jerk later" Christine said, as she jogged over to the private rooms.

Unsheathing her now single blade, she stared at it annoyed. She would find that masked annoyance if it was the last thing she did.

"Looking for this, Angel?" She whirled around to find the rather annoying man from last night's encounter, lazily swinging the blade by the hilt. He was now dressed in a grey T-shirt and black shorts but his black mask was still in place.

"Where did you get that from?" Christine snapped.

"You left it last night. Want it back?" Christine nodded. "Well then you'll have to fight for it." Christine scowled. This was not helping her in the least bit.

"Anything else you want to add to the wager Erik?" Christine asked annoyed.

He thought for a moment. _What would get her really ticked right now?_ "Yes- a kiss."

Christine's eyes widened. "Well then I better not lose then, right?" she smirked at his scowl. He tossed a longer blade at her. She looked at him confused.

"So that we fight fair."

Christine shook her head, tossing the long blade aside. "I don't fight with long swords. I have my own reasons for fighting with two."

"That's hardly fair."

"It seems fair enough, seeing as you tried to take me on last night when my energy was wasted. And I _still_ beat you."

He growled. "You did not win. You didn't even agree to the terms, much less fight fair."

Christine smirked. "It's not about fighting fair, Erik. It's about what you win in the end, and what you do with it that counts."

Erik snorted. "Like this piece of junk?" he asked, motioning to the glistening blade.

Christine growled at his ignorance. "_These pieces of junk_ were given to me by my father before he passed on when I was fifteen- just after my first assignment," she responded coldly, and Erik winced at his error. _Of course_ he would be stupid enough to dig himself into a hole with this hellcat. "They mean a lot, you jerk! They're just as special to me as when I sing since-" she stopped, realizing that she had told too much.

"_Yo_u sing?" Erik asked bemused.

She crossed her arms. "Do you want to fight me or no?"

"Okay, but now I'm upping the wager- you have to sing as well. I choose when and where. I'll be easy on you, and let you choose whichever karaoke bar you want, princess." Christine rolled her eyes and smirked. If only he knew.

"Deal." They shook on it.

And that was when Christine struck pushing him away and grabbing her second blade from his hand. "Now let's play." She positioned her arms as Erik drew out his sword. He struck first, and she went into attack mode, blocking his blade with one, and twisting it away from him with the other. The second blade was unsuccessful and she cursed at herself mentally to concentrate forget about the cocky man's good looks…

...

"Did you hear that Erik's going to challenge Christine?" Jacob asked Meg as she practiced kickboxing on a weighted dummy. She stopped then grinned.

"Oh he's got it in for her now. Jacob, what do you say if we do a little matchmaking?" Meg asked slyly, just as two people burst into the room, swords clanging.

Jacob grinned. "I'm beginning to like this side better and better." Meg laughed.

"Okay first stop: my mother's room. Time to do some reassigning." They hurried off, as the couple continued fighting oblivious of the just recent conversation.

...

Christine glanced at the clock on the wall before realizing that it had been half an hour since he challenged her. She had a plane to board in a couple hours! A glint of silver caught her eye, and she ducked with the Phantom's blade whistling in the air right after her.

"Why won't you just give up?" Christine said frustrated, as she formed her two swords into an X above her head as he tried to strike her again. Christine was suffering a few cuts and a long gash on her shoulder, but Erik had his shirt ripped off, and had several more cuts than her

"Because if I do, then I don't get to hear your _lovely_ voice." Erik shot back sarcastically as he tried to attack her again. With a twist of his blade, he flipped one of her swords out of her hand and it bounced across the room. "Now _this _is what I call fair!" Erik said happily, as he clutched her hand behind her back, pinning her against him. "And I win." he said placing his blade against her neck.

Christine smirked. "Right." Sharply elbowing his side, she ducked beneath his blade, kicked the back of his knees with her leg, and stood there with the length of her blade at his neck. "I win!" She cried triumphantly.

"Whatever you say." Erik sighed as he tripped her from below, causing her to fall on top of him. Quickly, he rolled on top of her with his own blade against her neck. "_Now _I win." he said smirking. "A little hellcat, aren't you?" he said mischievously. Christine struggled again then finally gave up, pouting.

"Fine, but I want my blade back."

Erik moved his head forward, leaving it barely an inch away from her mouth. "Deal. Now about that kiss and song." Christine blushed at the word kiss, but did nothing else to amuse him. He stared at her for a few moments longer as Christine scowled in annoyance. "I think I'll save them both for later." He said cheerfully.

"Could you get off me then please? You weigh a bit more than you look."

"Nope, I'm comfy where I am." Erik said, smirking at her red face.

"I doubt you would be comfy with a sore ass." Christine lifted up her knee threateningly. He got the message and quickly got up, holding out a hand to help her up.

Glaring, Christine slapped his hand away and helped herself up, then yelped when she felt him slap her butt. "What was that for?" She asked, almost hissing like a cat whose tail had been stepped on.

"Just making sure it wasn't flattened." Erik said jokingly. She made as if to leave, when he shot out his arm and grabbed her wrist, pulling her back to him. Once again he was too close to her for comfort. "You never told me your name." Erik murmured as he gazed flickered down to her rosy lips. _Maybe he should kiss her now instead of later…_

"Christine." She said shortly, before yanking her hand away and bent down to pick up her second blade before leaving the unoccupied room. Erik grinned. He knew a challenge when he met one, and this certainly would be one that he'd win.


	3. Chapter Three

_Hello dears,_

_A little cockier of an Erik than we're used to, right? And what's everyone's opinion on Miss Christine Daae: Strong and confident, or is it only a mask? Also, longer chapters like this with more time between updates, or is there a preference for chapter lengths like the first chapter and more constant updates? Personally I'm going for the first option, just because I'm a firm believer of quality versus quantity, but let me know! Don't forget to leave me a review and let me know your thoughts!_

_Shout out to Bookgirl13 for being the first reviewer- thank you for your support, darling!_

_Ever yours, _

_The Soprano in Shadow_

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><p>Andre paced angrily in front of the airport gate, which the bubbly brunette was supposed to have exited from <em>quite<em> a few hours ago. _The bloody diva was supposed to be here this evening, not the next morning!_ Marching over to the salt-and-pepper-haired man, arguing with the publicist who handled the brunette's operatic affairs, Andre grabbed the phone from him and ended the phone call.

"Andre, are you insane? Cat is supposed to be at a press conference _today_ and she still hasn't arrived yet! Carlotta _just simply has_ to alert the media and change the conference to tomorrow!" Firmin whined, trying to grab the phone out of the grey-haired man's clutches.

"Firmin, you might be adorable in bed when you whine, but in public, it's bloody embarrassing!" Andre snapped, shoving the phone into his pocket, procuring a turned up nose from his partner.

"And while you, Andre, might be good between the sheets, that doesn't mean you're just as good when you're between me and my mobile conversations!" Firmin shot back.

"Ah, so I _am_ good in bed. You're finally ready to admit it!" Andre crowed smugly.

"Boys, what have I told you about PDA in front of me?" demanded a grouchy voice. Looking behind them, they saw the famous opera singer in all of her public glory with a cart of Louis Vuitton luggage behind her.

"Cat, I said for you to be here about five hours ago! Do you know how _long_ we've been standing here waiting? We _all_ need our beauty sleep, darling." Andre stated, as Firmin's hand slid into Andre's pocket and quickly snatched his phone back.

"Details, details." Christine said. "Now, who's going to roll my luggage out this time? She asked sweetly, laughing as both of the men paled. While she may have to stress about her day job, it did have its perks. Like not having to handle her own luggage, or being able to get a plane ticket last minute with no charge because the head of the airline company was one of her biggest fans.

Startling the three of them, Firmin's phone began to ring with Carlotta's name flashing on the screen. Rolling his eyes, he answered the phone, walking away quickly in order to avoid luggage duty.

"Firmin here. What now?" He stopped as he listened intently to the sharp tones of the prima donna publicist. "Oh really? I thought that he—Oh. Oh! I see! Well then, will he—He will? Lovely! Talk soon." Turning around Firmin gave a wide grin to the two observers, then turned around again whistling happily as he made his way toward the airport's exit.

"Firmin! What did the shrieking hag say?" Andre demanded, referring to Carlotta's high-pitched and annoying voice. _If she wasn't the best publicist out there…._

"She called to say that the conference has been moved a day later. But not because of our dear little tardy diva here. Apparently the composer has decided to make a public appearance to speak about his opera and is only available tomorrow afternoon." Firmin said cheerfully.

"The composer will be there? _Mister Destler_ is going to make an appearance?" Christine asked, amazed. A brilliant virtuoso who had composed several operas before _Don Juan Triumphant_, Christine had always held a small crush for the mysterious composer—not that she would ever admit _that_. His self-written librettos and music were always beautifully tragic and heart breaking. In fact, Christine had listened to his operas and compositions non-stop while trying to recover from _him. _

She stopped thinking for a moment, and cleared her mind of the monster who haunted her past, turning her mind back to the beauty of this new opera. She had read about some opinions from the conductor (whom she had a very close platonic relationship with) via email about this new opera being harsh and inappropriate—apparently nothing like the other operas that this genius had composed before—however, Christine understood.

She understood the pain underneath the seducer _Don Juan_ and his fascination with Amnita. She saw the beauty, and she would make sure to pull the composer aside (if he was in fact planning on appearing at the press conference) and tell him exactly that.

"Let's go, darlin'!" Firmin's voice broke through her thoughts, as she hurried to catch up with the two men and the cart of luggage.

"Alright, so rehearsal in ten hours, missy. Dinner at seven this evening, back at the apartment before nine. Tomorrow afternoon is the new conference at one, run through of Act One, dinner and then we pull our clients' folders out and strategize." Andre said as he pulled the Louis Vuitton-made hill behind him.

"Apartment? More like penthouse…" Christine grumbled tiredly. Because of her love for New York City, Antoinette Giry always loaned out one of her many "large" apartments to the top assassins in the Organization.

Not only did it keep the assassins happy, but it also kept their hotel costs down with the amount of clientele they took care of in the Big Apple.

As the town car pulled away from the airport's circle driveway, Christine began to drown out the bickering between her two contacts, with thoughts of a faceless composer, and an irritating masked man.

…

"Miss Daae, if you could wander out onto stage right from _that_ entrance before you begin your part of the duet? Yes! Exactly like that! Now the composer suggests moving downstage while singing the 'No thoughts within her head' section—Perfect! Absolutely lovely, Miss Daae!" The stage director, her name had already escaped the brunette's mind because of hyper enthusiasm, exclaimed as she read out the markings in her own score. "Mark! Fill in for the nonexistent 'Don Juan', will you?" Christine snorted at that last remark as one of the tenors from the chorus rushed out from backstage. _Was there a male who acted more a diva than even her?_

"When do I get to meet this mysterious tenor?" Christine asked sweetly, curious about whom she would be sharing this passionate duet with.

"Well…" Here, the stage director's enthusiasm died as she struggled to find the correct words, "We're not exactly sure. We only know that the composer will be present for the press conference, so we'll know by tomorrow's rehearsal. The composer requested for his chosen male lead to rehearse with himself first before joining us tomorrow. Perhaps Mister Destler is confident in your abilities and not the tenor's."

Christine smirked at the stage director's words. Of course Mister Destler should have confidence in her abilities—she _was_ world-renowned for her technique after all.

"Alright everyone, five minutes to catch a breath while the orchestra assembles. I'm sure all of you could use the quick break." With a murmur of relief, the chorus and other main character singers began to stretch and head towards their individual water bottles with hope for a few minutes of peace.

"Mademoiselle Daae! A pleasure to see you once again!" Monsieur Reyers exclaimed happily as the orchestra members began to make their way into the orchestra pit.

Christine smiled at the sight of the friendly old French Canadian conductor. A family friend of the Daaes, Christine remembered how he and her father would reminisce about their old performance memories over a pint of beer or a glass of whiskey.

"It's wonderful to see you once again, Monsieur Reyers," she responded with a smile.

Casting another second of amusement towards the brunette, Monsieur Reyers turned and scowled upon seeing the instrumentalists who had begun to chat with one another. "Ladies and gentlemen, this is a rehearsal, _not_ a social event!" he snapped, causing them to hurry into warm-ups and review the sticky areas within the instrumental score, before working on the duet between Don Juan and Amnita.

As the other members of the opera still relaxed for a few more minutes, Christine began to practice her blocking alongside the duet that the orchestra was working on. With a quick nod from the temperamental conductor, as the orchestra neared the entrance of the second verse, Christine began to allow the steady breathing take over both her mind and diaphragm, as she opened her mouth and let her voice soar alongside the wind and string instruments.

The side conversations ended as the rest of the chorus members listened in stupor to the angelic sounds that erupted from this tiny body before them. So _this_ was the powerful siren voice that kept the world in complete adoration of the brunette lyric soprano.

_"You have brought me, to that moment when words run dry. To that moment when speech disappears into silence, silence. I have come here, hardly knowing the reason why..."_

As Christine continued singing her portions of the passionate duet, Christine closed her eyes to the house and stage around her. She could only hear this seductive music as she moved in sync with it. _These_ moments were what she lived for. _This_ is why she could never leave the world of opera behind her. This music, _this alone_, was the only thing that kept her from leaving the ordinary world altogether, instead of forever living within a world of shadow and cold-blooded murder...

...

"Miss Daae over here!"

"Miss Christine!"

"Miss Daae, answer my question next!"

"Any chance of a love life this time, Christine?"

Christine Daae smiled as the reporters snapped photo after photo of her and fired question after question. Sending a quick nod to her publicist, Carlotta Giudicelli leaned into the microphone. "Enough!" she screeched, as the microphone feedback and her voice caused all of the reporters to wince in irritation. Although she had studied voice in college, Miss Giudicelli had quickly realized that the stage was not her calling. Gaining attention was.

If Christine had been forced to undergo this news conference for the new opera yesterday afternoon fresh off the plane, Christine would have already snapped by now. However, after a good ten hour sleep to get over the jet lag, the young soprano was ready to flirt with the cameras.

"Thank you, Miss Giudicelli," Christine said, almost amused, speaking delicately into the microphone. "Now, who would like to go first? Let's see… Opera News, New York Times, International Opera and New York Wired. A question each from all of you and we'll go from there, shall we?" The selected reporters all grinned at their luck of being able to ask first as they all glanced down at their note pads.

"What's your opinion on this new opera, _Don Juan Triumphant_, by the mysterious Mister Destler?"

_Trust Opera News to open this period of the conference with a strong question_.

Christine smiled at the opening question as she remembered her thoughts from yesterday about the music. "I believe that this production is opening a new door in opera, going beyond the respectable and pushing further into new depths. While the story may contain a classic_ Don Giovanni_ character, I feel as though Mister Destler introduces a very different feel within his libretto."

"Will you be making more of an appearance in New York during this visit, since the last few times you've only stayed in your apartment?"

"My apologies to the society columns and such, however I do plan on holding true to my habits from previous visits to this beautiful city. I plan on enjoying whatever I can of my month and a half stay in New York _in_ _the daytime_." Christine responded to the New York Times reporter, as the rest of the media whispered to each other unhappily. "As a singer, I am determined to relax and sleep early during the evenings so that I am refreshed for every upcoming performance."

"Are you nervous about the opera opening in a week having only rehearsed once so far, and not even meeting your partnering tenor yesterday?"

"Well, every singer knows that he or she will be expected to know his or her individual part, and obviously be able to hold it as an individual during a performance. I actually feel as though this practice of using individual leads in a rehearsal is a good thing, because it only makes the rehearsal and overall performance stronger."

"The critics are worried that this opera will be breaking any set boundaries in the operatic community, any agreeing or disagreeing comments?"

"I have always held a fascination for Mister Destler's opera and other compositions. They always produce a strange beauty that entrances and almost seduces the main singers themselves on stage. He may break boundaries with his work, but it is my belief that boundaries are set to be broken." Christine responded passionately to the curious reporters.

"Does that, then, possibly mean that you may have developed a small crush on the composer, Miss Daae? You sound almost besotted!" An anonymous voice filled with richness resounded within the large foyer of the opera house. The media representatives hushed all at once, microphones ready and pens eager to catch and record the answer first.

Christine laughed as her cheeks flushed lightly, internally berating herself for making such a slip up, while trying to remember where she had heard such a musical voice before.

"I wouldn't say that I have a 'crush' for the composer per se, however I will admit to holding, shall we say, a certain fondness for the composer, even if I do not know Mister Destler personally." Christine said hesitantly while the reporters scribbled furiously to catch every word. "May I ask what publication this is for, please?" Christine squinted against the lights trying to locate a face to match the voice- a feat that Christine should have been able to do easily with her extensive training background.

The crowd of media representatives parted as a man dressed in black dress pants and an untucked white dress shirt stepped forward, presenting a short yet mocking bow. "Why of course. Erik Destler of Erik Destler Compositions." The white half mask that he wore may have been different, but the smirk was the same... The smirk that made his catlike golden eyes carry an even more mocking look.

Christine's face paled as photographers snapped countless photos of the no longer anonymous composer. The composer whose music Christine cherished the most. It was none other than the jerk that she not only owed a song, but a kiss!

Carlotta Giudicelli stared at the man before her. _So this was the eccentric composer: Mr. Tall, Dark and Handsome himself..._

As Christine stood speechless, she watched as Erik made his way up to the podium. A wink in her direction from the masked menace caused Christine to almost flush in embarrassment. Almost.

"Mister Destler! Why so long in hiding?"

Mister Destler, who's the leading tenor?"

"Hey Mister Destler! Is there a Mrs. Destler?" The crowd looked amused at the final question as Erik released a soft chuckle.

"Thankfully, there is no Mrs. Destler, yet, otherwise I'm quite sure that all of my inspiration would have died off with the amount of time I'd have to spend... _indisposed_." A ripple of laughter erupted from the media as Christine rolled her eyes at the cocky behavior. "Well, gentlemen, _and ladies_, haven't you ever heard that anonymity creates more curiosity?"

"What do you have to say to Miss Daae's response to the earlier questions?" A reporter asked, curious about the eccentric composer's response.

"As for what this _darling_ creature has said about my opera and my creations earlier on, I am very thankful that my opera is being performed by an, at least, _intelligent_ soprano." Glaring, Christine was about to say something in response to his offensive quip when yet another reporter cut her off.

"And what about the tenor, Mister Destler? Or is he going to remain anonymous until the opening of the opera?"

"Unfortunately, yes he will remain anonymous. I know this man _intimately_, and I am extremely confident in his skills. He is the very epitome of Don Juan himself, however he does request privacy for the moment." Erik responded with an amused smile directed towards the lyric soprano.

Christine's heart sank as she realized that she would have no chance alone with the leading tenor. As Carlotta thanked the reporters for attending, Erik's voice broke the soprano away from her thoughts.

"So, Christine, we meet again. Shall we go off somewhere and perhaps discuss this _certain fondness_ you have for little old _moi?" _The masked composer murmured tauntingly as he faced her, his eyes staring into her own hardening hazel eyes before flitting to stare at her lips. "Maybe we can even share the kiss that I have yet to claim from you."

Christine stared boldly into Erik's smoldering gaze as she hissed quietly, "If you ever try to kiss me, _monsieur_, you'll find your body on the other end of the room when I detach it from you head!"

Erik chuckled quietly as he left the foyer and headed backstage, his mind reeling of ways he could change the little hellcat's hisses into purrs of pleasure. _Oh this opera will be such fun indeed..._

Her job done, Carlotta stood next to Christine and let out a low whistle, saying, "Erik Destler may be cocky, Christine, but publicity for _Don Juan_ would hardly be necessary if his face had been recognized beforehand. There would be women blocking _all_ of the aisles just to see—and I'm pretty sure you know by now I'm not talking about the opera." With that, Carlotta made her way out of the almost empty foyer of the opera house, leaving Christine standing there alone as she pondered the older woman's words.


	4. Chapter Four

Hello all,

Well, my apologies for the couple of days delay, however I needed to figure out where I wanted this chapter to end and the next one to begin. This one's a tad shorter than the previous chapter, however, I hope that all of you will enjoy reading it as much as I did writing it. I wanted to add a little bit more character to our main eventual couple here, so this is some fluff and some story progression.

Some exciting news on the home front (on a rather personal level): I'll be in New York this coming summer for an internship in exactly one month from today. I'm so excited! Hopefully by then, I'll be way more into the plot. I've got some different ideas I want to play around with, but of course it's up to Christine and Erik to see what route they want me to take, yeah?

Anyway I just wanted to give a little shout out to my boyfriend, le Canadian, for beta-ing all of my chapters so far- he's been there through some of my odd writing phases. Also, a thank you to everyone who has added this story to their alerts, and to those who have reviewed so far. I remain your humble servant. Now, on for the chapter.

Ever yours,

_Soprano in Shadow_

* * *

><p>Shaking her head in annoyance, Christine made her way to the front stage where Erik Destler, or as she liked to call him "the masked menace," was making notes onto his copy of the score as he conferred with both the stage director and conductor.<p>

"Now, Christine Daae has several costume changes – might I add, rivaling the amount of costume changes for the lead soprano in Massenet's _Manon_. Since her main singing roles do not really occur until after the first duet with Don Juan, Miss Daae can change in her dressing room with the help of the seamstress, since there are also quite a few scenery changes as well. Her changing in the wings will just get in the way," Mr. Destler said as he began marking these specific moments in blue.

At the sound of a foot tapping and a huff of annoyance, Erik looked up, spotting Christine. "Ah, the diva has decided to grace us with her presence after all. Have your measurements been taken already?"

"Yes – yesterday," Christine said, glaring at the rude composer. Cocking an eyebrow in reply to her short response, Erik looked once more at the score.

"Alright, well then let's take it to the chorus' small bit right before the love duet, and see what messes I have to clear up," Erik said cynically as he flipped through the score once more. Glancing up from his score at the lack of movement surrounding him, he scowled. "That was not a _request_; that was an order. Positions, everyone, now!" At the sound of his thundering voice, the singers quickly got into place, worried that they would cause this eccentric masked man to yell once more.

As the chorus began to run through their section, Christine scrutinized the masked figure that was watching from within the house of the theatre. The cocky man from the day before was gone. In front of her eyes sat a quiet and calculating man who had created, well, all of this. How could he have created all of this passion, when he himself seemed to be devoid of it?

Silence broke the young singer from her thoughts as she glanced around, noticing that everyone was staring at her. Confused, Christine took in the empty stage and then realized what was wrong: she had missed her cue entirely!

"Miss Daae, if you wouldn't mind actually doing your job and singing, then we can all move forward and get this rehearsal over with!" Erik hollered as he walked briskly down the main aisle in the house towards the stage.

Flushing angrily, Christine muttered a quiet apology as Erik ruffled his hair in frustration and barked at the chorus to begin again. This time Christine paid attention and came in at the right moment as she began the recitative. As the first section of the duet began, Christine imagined a handsome young man singing the opening to her gently, yet passionately, and she smiled in happiness at the image before her.

"_You have brought me to that moment when words run dry. To that moment when speech disappears into—"_

"Silence! Instruments down. Let's start at the beginning of the refrain." Erik thundered, as he leaped onto the stage with feline grace and strode toward the lyric soprano. "Miss Daae, a word, please, before you begin again."

Swallowing, Christine followed the composer to the wings of stage right as Monsieur Reyers shushed the complaining orchestra members. Erik stared at her for a moment before asking her a question that made Christine wish she had never agreed to partake in this opera.

"Are you trying to make me the laughing stock of our world?" Erik asked quietly, searching her eyes for a clear answer. She stood there dumbstruck as she pondered his words. She wasn't trying to ruin his opera, why would he even think that?

"Why would I want to do that? That would place me in the same position as you," Christine hissed, her eyes flashing with anger. "I would _never_ give less than the hundred percent that I have… even if the composer happens to be a complete jerk."

"Then sing like you mean it! This isn't a little petty bicker between school children, Christine! This is my life's work! This opera is all that I am. Do you know how long it's taken for me to have the courage for this opera to be performed? This is everything to me. I'm not going to allow a below par actress to ruin this."

If looks could kill, both Erik and Christine would have been dead with the fury in the other's eyes.

"What would you like me to do? What ever could I do to improve my skills for your opera, Mister Destler?" Christine asked sarcastically, as she spat his name out with venom.

"I want you to pretend that someone is on stage with you; as though someone was singing this to you and holding you during the refrain as passionately as both the music and words are."

"Well, I'd at least need a body to stand there, so that I would have someone actually holding me," Christine said flippantly, trying to quell the feelings of confusion inside.

Erik regarded her before saying solemnly, "Fine. I'll be your body. You sing it, and I'll walk through the tenor's blocking."

Taking a breath, Christine nodded, and the pair of them headed back out onto the stage.

"Monsieur Reyers, if we can take it from the beginning of the duet's B section, please? We don't need the recitative," Erik called out to the conductor, who nodded in response and began to lead the orchestra in.

As he found his place right behind her, his parting gift rocked her to the core, as he murmured, "Now, this time feel it in the depths of your entire being—_that_ is where your true potential will lie."

Swallowing, Christine nodded as the music for the refrain began to build up. Instantly following through the blocking, she became more aware of what the words really held in meaning, as Erik whispered them in time to her.

Her cue approached, and as she began to sing her verse once again, Christine felt a tremor run through her body as his hand made contact with her waist.

"_You have brought me to that moment when words run dry. To that moment when speech disappears into silence, silence." _Turning to look the man behind her in the eye, she walked backward a step.

"_I __have come here, hardly knowing the reason why. In my mind I've already imagined our bodies entwining, defenseless and silent."_ She turned to look away, toward the empty audience as she took a step downstage.

"_Now I am here with you. No second thoughts, I've decided._" He followed behind her at those words, placing both of his hands on either side of her hips, as she leaned back into him. _"Decided."_

Something clicked within her as she continued on with her solo of the refrain and followed through the blocking, suddenly feeling invigorated. _Now_ all of this blocking made sense. It was a seduction. _But why?_ Why would Don Juan need to seduce the village girl Amnita? If she loved him as much as she sang about it in the first act, what was the point?

As she neared the top of the stairs that would lead to the scaffolding, Christine made eye contact with Erik, and as he began to speak the words powerfully, she sang along with him_. "Past the point of no return, the final threshold."_

As they met at the middle and held onto each other, their eyes burned once more, but this time from the passion of the music. _"The bridge is crossed so stand and watch it burn."_ He swung her round in front, as she laid her head against his shoulder, her body facing the seats down below. _"We've passed the point of no return."_ As the music began to fade away, Christine turned her face and looked at him, and a passing thought on his good looks – despite his temper – left as soon as it had arrived.

A few moments passed, and Erik stepped away clearing his throat, a faint blush warming his neck. "Better. Much better. But still not enough." Christine huffed, all thoughts of his attractiveness out of her mind.

"You think you could do it better? Fine, go ahead," Christine said, walking toward the stairs that would lead her down the scaffold. Erik followed her down, but instead of moving downstage where the chorus members were filling the front few rows, he stayed down center, poised.

With a nod to Monsieur Reyers, the conductor started the orchestra once more at the same spot, and Christine turned around at the sound of the music. "What the bloody hell do you think you're doing?" She asked, confused at the activity surrounding her.

Erik smirked and said, "Well, you did tell me to go ahead," before starting her verse of the duet... in falsetto.

As Christine watched on dumbfounded, Erik went through her staging, except at the same time, he didn't. He was fluid, and he acted as though his skin was burning with passion for… well, Don Juan. He was everything that she wanted to be, unleashed, except she couldn't be. Otherwise her heart would get broken once again.

"And that, Miss Daae, is how it's done," Erik announced, still standing on the scaffold.

Christine peered up at him and grinned. "I have to say, Mister Destler, there's one good perk about you standing way up there."

Erik frowned. This was not how this conversation was supposed to go. She was supposed to apologize, and admit that she needed to work more on her character. "And what would that be, Miss Daae?"

Christine smirked. "It means that by the time you get down here, I'll have already left. Have a nice evening, everyone!" Christine said happily, as she skipped out of the theatre, knowing that she left behind a fuming composer.

Christine- 2, Erik- 3. Slowly, but surely, she was catching up.


	5. Chapter Five

_Hello there!_

_Sorry it's taken so much time to update. College finals are next week for me, so I've been rushing about trying to get music memorized and projects completed feeling as though my head is cut off. Anyway, Here's a 3,000ish word chapter as a little 'thank you' from me for being so patient. A lot goes on in this chapter, so I hope all of you enjoy every small detail as much as I've enjoyed writing it. This summer, I'll definitely be able to turn out chapter faster with the same amount of quality, so hold tight with me for another week or so, as I try to get my bearings together!_

_Ever yours,_

_**Soprano in Shadow**_

* * *

><p>"You wouldn't believe the way he treated me, Firmin! Ugh, <em>that jerk<em>!" Christine vented as she rinsed the shampoo out of her hair. Nodding along to the frustrated singer's mini rant absentmindedly even though she couldn't see him through the shower curtain, Firmin was sending email after email to various members in the Organization, his fingers flying across his phone's touch screen keyboard.

"I mean he basically called me a bad actor. Me! I've defended his anonymity since the first opera he produced, and he says that I would make him the laughing stock of the opera world?"

"Calm down, Cat. I'm sure that it's just part of his… charm. Maybe tomorrow will be better?" Firmin asked, as he worriedly read an email he just received from _Madame_.

Christine's head popped out from behind the shower curtain. "Firmin, tomorrow may just never happen. I've never crossed words with a composer or a director before. He'll probably call me and ask me to leave New York as soon as possible!"

"Err… Christine," Firmin began, as he tried to find a way to break the news, "I don't think Mr. Destler will be asking you to leave anytime soon…" Firmin trailed off as he tried to find a way to word the next piece of information. "It seems as though his appearance in New York is not a coincidence whatsoever. From what _Madame _has sent me… Well, Mr. Destler has been assigned as your second."

A quiet pause followed as the nervous man's latest words sunk in. "Get Antoinette on the bloody phone now!" the soprano shrieked from within the shower.

…

"Yes, Christine, I understand. Yes, I know he can be a bit eccentric, but you can handle—I know. Yes, I know. _Of course I haven't forgotten_." Antoinette Giry snapped into the phone as she massaged her temple in hope of relieving the pain.

"No, Christine, I can't withdraw him from being your second. Yes, I understand you're a little sore… Okay, maybe sore isn't the most appropriate word, but still. You should let bygones be bygones."

Reaching into her third drawer, Antoinette glanced at the prescription bottle to make sure it was the correct one, unscrewed it and popped a painkiller into her mouth, followed by a gulp of water. This conversation needed it.

"No, Christine, I can't send him out to you. He's on an assignment in Europe for another week. I know he's the only man you've worked with as your second, but he has clients to handle."

The door to her office slid open as Meg Giry peeked into her mother's office, only for Antoinette to point at her and then to the chair in front of her desk. Biting her lip, Meg sat as she waited for her mother's lecture.

Antoinette sighed as the soprano's voice on the other end began to plead once again. "No, Christine, I can't send you out to Europe on a red eye to help him handle all of his clients in one night, just so he can second you for the rest of your stay in New York." Meg tried to stifle a laugh at her mother's choice of words, only for it to be stifled under her mother's disapproving glare.

"Alright, I'll see what I can do, Christine. Enjoy dinner. Tell Andre it's on me. Bye now." Antoinette sighed after putting the office phone back onto the receiver and began to shuffle through different folders of agents on assignment.

Meg Giry swallowed as she tried to visualize how Christine must have looked, distraught.

Antoinette leaned back into her chair as she stared solemnly at her blond daughter. "Meg Giry, I hope you're happy now. What have I told you about switching seconds I've assigned for long term projects?"

…

Sighing in frustration, Christine tossed the phone back to a petrified Firmin, who fumbled to catch it. _Why wasn't Andre ever here when a crisis occurred?_

"Alright, so new plan tonight. Dinner at Sparks' Steakhouse instead of sushi, and then we come back here and plan what to do about our clients." Christine said, as she held the towel that covered her body in one hand, and rubbed her head with the other. "Firmin, if you can get reservations in. And ask them to make sure that the press doesn't get in this time—That's the last thing I need."

…

Three glasses of champagne clinked as Andre led the three of them in a toast. "To our dear soprano. May all of the bickering that has occurred between yourself and Mr. Destler pay off on opening night!"

Christine couldn't help but smile. Her two companions had been attempting to cheer her up all day. Not that it hadn't helped, but Christine had a feeling that with how wonderful tonight had been going, something would _have_ to go wrong—something always did.

"As long as that idiot stays away from me from now on, I don't care. I can't stand him." Christine rattled on, not noticing both Andre and Firmin's faces pale. "Did I tell you that he actually tried to get some amount of passion from me when he wouldn't shut up about the duet? I'm sorry but who would ever be passionate about that cold stick in the mud?" Christine laughed as she took another sip of her champagne, when a chilly voice froze her to the core.

"I'm so sorry, mademoiselle, for taking up your precious time when I'm just trying to make this opera perfect. And of course you're one to judge about love, Ms. 'I haven't had a date in 5 years'… Maybe you should judge people by their character instead of shallowly basing people on their looks!" Erik spat out angrily as he glared into her now turned face, but quietly enough so that the surrounding tables couldn't hear their bickering.

She stood there shocked. Was he following her? And what had he meant by that last comment? He didn't think that she was basing him off of his mask wearing, was he? And why did she care so much?

"Mr. Destler, I'm so sorry! May I offer you a seat?" Andre asked as he hastily got up and signaled the waiter to bring over an extra chair.

"Well, as I was sent here to rendezvous with all of you tonight… Thank you so much, Mr. -" Erik broke off not knowing the elder gentleman's name.

The man in question let out a nervous chuckle, obviously attempting to provide some light to the tense atmosphere. "Andre, call me Andre, Mr. Destler. I'm assuming Madame spoke with your contact to inform you of your and Christine's situation?"

"Yes, Antoinette did, however she alerted me personally. I have no contact," Erik explained as he leaned back and accepted the freshly poured glass of champagne. The other three looked at him in wonder. Only one other person could call the Madame 'Antoinette' besides young Meg, and that was her adopted daughter

"How is it that 'Antoinette' allows you to go without a contact and a with free reign?" Christine asked, curious.

"Let's just say that Antoinette isn't as cold and uncaring as is the face that she tends to put out there." Erik said breezily. "Now, since apparently this 'opera diva' doesn't know how to take her day job seriously, maybe it would be best if we retire to Antoinette's penthouse?"

Nodding, Andre and Firmin began to rise from their chairs, when Christine asked, "Wait! What do you mean by all of us retiring to the penthouse? You don't mean..."

"Why, Miss Daae, you didn't think that penthouse was just for you, did you?" Erik drawled sarcastically as Christine's face paled once more.

Later, reports would state that the scream, which could be heard from outside of the steakhouse and on the streets of Manhattan, was from the discovery of a mouse in the dining hall.

However, if the paparazzi had captured the scene of a masked man bursting forth from the back door—carrying an unconscious soprano on his shoulder—with a nervous Firmin following, and lastly an embarrassed Andre (who was stuck not only paying the bill, but also slipping $2000 alongside it as payment for the disturbance) bringing up the rear, then they would have realized that even assassins who were world famous singers did have their own melt downs every once in a while.

…

"Is she waking up yet?" Christine could hear an irritated Andre grumble as she began to regain consciousness.

"You would think that being an assassin would help keep her drama free. But no," Erik said shoving his hands in his pockets as he carried on watching her with the other two men. "Since she's a diva, she has to go and swoon in public. What a wonderful performance. What else can the little drama queen do?"

"She's normally never like this honestly, Mr. Destler," Firmin said nervously. "She's actually quite sensible. She's had a good head on her shoulders since she was born. Trust us, we'd know," was the last thing Christine heard before drifting off to sleep again.

Erik looked at the both of them. Maybe now he could try and understand a little more about her ways. "You've known her since she was a child? Well, can you tell me what she has against men?" Both of Christine's contacts shook their head frantically at that question.

"Unfortunately we cannot relate that story to another unless Christine allows it," Andre said solemnly. "However what we can say is that she's a lot closer to being fixed than she was a year ago, if you catch my drift.

Erik nodded in response, thinking. If she _was_ as damaged as they claimed, then maybe Christine would understand his own past. Maybe it would be time to open up to the flighty soprano so that they could possibly work together in peace? "What can you tell me about her father?" Erik asked, curious about the man who had raised the stubborn brunette.

Andre shrugged. What was there that he could say without having to explain much? "All I can tell you is that he raised Christine into who she is today: her strength, musical intellect, intelligence and stubbornness: all of those are from him. When he died, everyone was so surprised and hurt by this loss. _Madame_ herself paid for a full assassin's funeral, and I believe that you were the only one who did not attend of the current members. I believe this all occurred before your time."

"So Miss Daae was raised to become an assassin her whole life? That hardly seems fair," Erik said, a tad alarmed at the thought of raising a child to become a cold-blooded killer. Even _he_ wasn't that cynical about the world.

Firmin shook his head frantically, trying to brighten up the harsh picture that his partner had painted. "You don't understand, Mr. Destler. He never wanted her to become like himself. Christine's mother had passed on in trying to bring a second child into the world, and Gustave was just not ready to be a parent without his wife. He taught her everything that he knew because _Christine_ wanted to learn. I think Christine did it in order to become closer to her father."

Erik nodded in understanding, as he spread a blanket over the unconscious girl and moved the brunette's curls off of her face, a slight smile growing on his own.

Andre saw this and said, "Mr. Destler, we do need to know that you won't ever hurt her. The fact that you're not Raoul, and she hasn't tried to kill you yet says a lot, but I want to know that you will never do anything that could harm our little Angel at all. She's gone through enough."

Erik nodded at this and scowled as he processed the contact's words. "Who's this Raoul? Not Raoul de Chagny?" Both contacts winced as Andre realized his mistake.

The conversation ended as the brunette began to stir. As her eyes opened, she looked around until she found herself staring at the eccentric composer. Silently they stared at each other until a quiet cough from Firmin caught her attention.

"So now that you're awake, shall we begin our meeting?" Firmin asked brightly.

With a groan, Christine nodded as she sat up on the couch she had been laid on. Handing her the stack of fifty-six files, Andre couldn't help but tousle her hair a little before Erik moved to sit next to her on the sofa in order to have a better look at the files.

"Alright so we have how long? Three months, right?" Christine asked as she began to separate the men from the women, and then by sexual orientation. It would make things quite a bit easier to only go after those who would be attracted to her…

Erik nodded. "I'm assuming that opening week would be the least productive, since there are so many other things to deal with. So minus these two weeks, we'll have approximately two months and a third to deal with our clients. So about eleven weeks, I would say."

"Well then let's strategize: with these many clients I'd say we'd have to take care of five clients per week. Of course we don't have to divide and conquer, we could scramble it up in order to not create a pattern." Christine stopped speaking as she held up one photo from her own stack.

"Well hold on. It says that this bloke will be attending the opening night of the opera. He has a box, but it's in the middle of the house so that's no good. Andre, see if you can switch his box with someone else's so that he can be right by the edge, yes?" Christine smiled at the contact's quiet chuckle.

Erik nodded, impressed with her strategy. Maybe being a second to the soprano wouldn't be so difficult after all. "Well that could definitely work. Now, I believe that we can work on two to three during the daytime and then the remainder later in the evening. However, we'll just have to make sure that there's a reason why we're always together..." Erik trailed off as both he and Christine began to think of ways to make this work.

"What about long lost cousins?" Christine asked, but Erik shook his head.

"Too risky. The reporters would want to know family connections and such. We could go more personal. Siblings?" Erik suggested.

"All the journalists would have to do is look my name up, and they'll remember the headlines of my mom dying in childbirth," Christine said. "It's impossible."

Erik nodded. "Past lovers?"

"No date in five years, remember? How about friends just getting together"

"If we're just friends getting together, then they would speculate that we were doing much more than just catching up. Plus, you looked tooshocked during the press conference," Erik responded.

As both were busy concocting a story, Firmin leaped up and called Carlotta. They paused as they saw him hang up his phone and then turn the closest television on.

"Firmin, we're a tad too busy to be watching shows at the moment—even if it is the news," Christine said distractedly as she and Erik both continued thinking. Shrugging Firmin grabbed the remote in order to mute the broadcast, only for Christine to quickly change her mind once she glanced at the screen. "No! Wait! Stop!" Grabbing the remote from Firmin the soprano turned the television's volume up even higher as a photo from the conference appeared on the screen.

"Inside sources tell us that there was more than confusion going on at the press conference this afternoon at the opera house between the composer and opera diva. As soon as Mr. Erik Destler, the until-now anonymous composer, was placed on the market, sources claim that he has been quickly taken off it by Christine Daae, and that the two of them are nesting as we speak." The ever-smiling news reporter spoke on about the details of the opera and Christine, as all three of them glared at a smug looking Firmin.

"Firmin, what did you do?" Andre demanded before either person of the supposed couple could even speak.

Firmin shrugged. "It's not like you weren't thinking of doing the exact same thing, Andre. I was just faster about it, and involved Carlotta." The two older men began to bicker until finally Christine interrupted them.

"Alright, boys, enough! What's done is done. I'm sure Mr. Destler and I could have figured out something better to say to the press, however, this could work to our advantage. I mean it's only eleven weeks. Right, Mr. Destler?" Christine said tiredly, as she glanced at the clock. "I'm off to bed. I've got rehearsal in the morning, which involves pleasing a masked brute. No offense, Mr. Destler."

As she began to walk past the composer, Erik grabbed her hand, causing her to stop and look at him. "I would prefer when we are not in rehearsal, Miss Daae, if you would call me 'Erik'," he said quietly to her, his eyes smoldering as they caught a glint of moonlight.

Blushing lightly, Christine nodded, as she clasped his hand with her own and smiled softly. "Only if you call me 'Christine'. Goodnight then, Erik." His grip loosening upon her saying his name, Christine walked slowly to her own bedroom, leaving a bewildered composer behind. It was the first time the soprano had ever said his birth name, and the way she had said it…

"Goodnight… Christine."


	6. Don Juan Triumphant Synopsis

_Hello there!_

I'm taking the time to create this because a large majority of this fanfiction takes place around Erik's _Don Juan Triumphant_. Now for all of those who aren't complete opera geeks like me and tried to research more about Don Juan Triumphant, here's a little bit of background:

Because the theory behind Don Juan is that it was loosely based on the opera _Don Giovanni_, I'm pretending for the sake of this fanfiction, that the opera _Don Giovanni_ doesn't exist, specifically because I don't have the heart for Erik to be one who plagiarized... Especially Mozart, since he's one of my favorite composers. **My version of **_**Don Juan Triumphant**_** will be still set in Italian theoretically** (although technically speaking it would have been set in French in reality since the original story of "Phantom of the Opera" is based in Paris), however again for the sake of this piece of fanfiction, everything related to the opera will be spoken in English.

Alright so, Act 1 is basically the same as Act 1, scene 1 of _Don Giovanni_, just because it's basically necessary for the rest of the plot. If you've never read the synopsis of _Don Giovanni_ then you can find it _**here: http: .org/ wiki/ Don_Giovanni **_. However, the original names of the characters, I've taken from the very first story of Don Juan titled, _The Trickster of Seville and the Stone Guest_, and you can find the synopsis for this _**here: http:/ .org/wiki/ The_Trickster_of_ Seville_and_the_ Stone_Guest **__._

Now a word to the wise: I _**do**_ use different excerpts from _Don Giovanni, The Trickster of Seville and the Stone Guest_, and also pieces of Sir Andrew Lloyd Webber's _The Phantom of the Opera_ out of order in order to give it a little familiar feeling while trying to keep hold of Don Juan's image. However, up until Act 2, Scene 3, the titles of the different pieces sung within my version of _Don Juan Triumphant_, are all created by me, so there is some amount of original work in this.

***If you would like to use any part of my synopsis in the future for your own writings, I have no problem with sharing, however I would appreciate a quick private message to let me know, and also my story, link and pen name mentioned so I at least get some mention of the work I put in to create this synopsis.

And now, without further ado, here is the synopsis of my version for the opera _Don Juan Triumphant_. Enjoy!

Ever yours,

_**Soprano in Shadow**_

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><p><em><strong>Characters:<strong>_

Don Juan- Enough said

Passarino- The servant of Don Juan

Donna Isabela- A conquest of Don Juan's

Don Octavio- Isabela's fiancé

Don Pedro- Isabela's father

Aminta- Village girl

Batricio- Aminta's match-made fiancé who is in love with Tisbea

Tisbea (not seen)- Batricio's love who was sent away because of a scandal

_**Synopsis**_

**Act One **

**Scene One. **_A palace in Seville. _

The opera opens with Passarino in front of the curtains, who is waiting for his master, outside of a lady's chambers. In order to keep himself occupied, Passarino speaks with the audience of how tired he is, but how in awe he is of his master (Passarino: _How the night passes/ Yet he is a fox in the night_). The curtains than open up to a scene in the bedroom of Donna Isabela, who believes that she has just enjoyed an evening with her fiancé, Don Octavio (Isabela: _Oh what joy there is in love_). However, when she tries to turn on the light in her room, the man she has just beloved tries to stop her from doing so. After a small struggle, Isabela realizes it is not Don Octavio, but instead someone else. Embarassed at what she has done, Isabela cries for help claiming that she has been raped although that is not the truth (Isabela/ Don Juan: _What evils have you brought me to pursue? / Women turn fickle from betraying_), and Don Pedro bursts into the room and challenges the intruder, Don Juan, allowing for Isabela to escape and seek out her fiancé. The two men duel (Don Pedro/ Don Juan: _Her virtue will nay be tarnished / For I am he who conquers_), and Isabela returns with Don Octavio only to find her father dead, and the murderer and his accomplice gone. Together, the couple agrees to hunt down the murderer and take back her virtue (Don Octavio/ Donna Isabela: _Ah! To avenge both blood and virtue!_).

_**Short Intermission**_

**Act Two**

**Scene One. **_A small village on the outskirts of Seville._

A betrothal ceremony is occurring between the match made couple, Barticio and Aminta, although Batricio is in love with Tisbea, another woman (Chorus: _Oh joyous day of rapture_; Aminta/ Batricio: _He must forget and I must love/ Ah, Tisbea! You know not my pain!_). Don Juan and Passarino arrive to this scene and Don Juan is immediately attracted to Aminta (Don Juan: _Oh cruel fates, what joke is this!_). In hopes of this merely being lust and not love, Don Juan introduces himself as Don Octavio, and invites the betrothal part to throw a lavish party at his expense. As the villagers crowd Passarino for money to spend (Passarino/ Chorus: _Ah my master, how sly he is! / Ah his master, how kind he is!_) This in turn causes Aminta to lose sight of her fiancé, and wanders off with Don Juan close behind. Startled, Aminta is at first on guard, and then begins to speak to him of how Batricio does not love her (Aminta: _For he loves one who is not me!_). Don Juan assures the soon-to-be bride that Batricio only needs to be persuade, and that he, Don Juan, will arrange for Batricio to go to her bed this evening. She agrees and leaves Don Juan to ponder his plan (Don Juan: _Now let this showed affection cease_).

**Scene Two.**

Don Juan speaks to Batricio of Aminta and Tisbea. Batricio is suspicious of Don Juan's intentions towards Aminta, although Batricio still does not love her. In order to get him out of the way, Don Juan suggests for Batricio to go in search of Tisbea and speak to her of his feelings, however either way he will not be alone. For if Tisbea choose him, then Batricio will never have to return. But if Tisbea rejects him then he'll at least have Aminta to return to (Don Juan/ Batricio: _On either hand, a maiden you'll/I'll have_). When Batricio leaves to tell Aminta that he is traveling to see his family Don Juan rushes him along, and tells him that he will go and explain everything to Aminta instead (Don Juan/ Batricio: _But were my soul to not object/ Dear heart, to you I go_).

**Scene Three.**

**This scene is where **_**Past the Point of No Return **_**occurs between Don Juan and Aminta.** Basically the chorus opens up the scene (Chorus: _Here the sire may serve the dam_), and then the duet with the exact same choreography as found in the film. At the end of the duet, Don Juan does continue to sing (Don Juan: _All I Ask of You_), as he realizes that he is indeed in love with Aminta, and can no longer go through with using and leaving Aminta, but instead plans to marry her after the deed is finished. At the end of his short solo, the lights on stage dim, as the orchestra plays _Point of No Return_ once more, only to be interrupted by the stage being flooded with light once more, and Aminta wrapped in a robe is speaking with who she thinks is Batricio. She explains that although she is glad he finally loves her, she has instead fallen in love with Don Juan himself (Aminta: _Fickle fate has shown love for me_). As Don Juan is about to reveal his true identity, Batricio rushes in, against the attempts of Passarino trying to stop him, in order to thank Don Juan and tell him that he will take his leave once he sees Aminta again to solidify his decision. He sees Aminta, and Aminta hears his words, and both are furious at Don Juan for his deception. Aminta accuses him of being false, while Don Juan pleads for Aminta to listen and Batricio demands a duel (Aminta/ Don Juan/ Batricio/ Passarino: _Was I to be your prey for lust? / This pitiful soul / Creature of deception / Make haste and flee, good master_).

_**Intermission**_

**Act Three**

**Scene One. **_A graveyard on the outskirts of Seville._

Because of the rigid village laws, it is said that the betrothal between Aminta and Batricio is dissolved, and Don Juan has been chased out of the village with Passarino. Overcome and distraught with shame, Aminta visits the grave of her parents, and decides that she must die in order to save her soul from being sent to Hell (Aminta: _If through death virtue can be regained_). Before her death, Don Juan arrives in time to stop Aminta from delivering the deathly blow with a dagger in front of the statue of Don Pedro (Don Juan/ Aminta: _If for but a moment, listen to love/ False one, cease my torment!_). Unbeknownst to them, Donna Isabela and Don Octavio have finally caught up with Don Juan, and listen to the couple. Don Juan convinces Aminta that he is there to take her away and marry her because she loves him, despite his ugly character, with a pure love (Don Juan: _Of purity and love_). Realizing that this is indeed not another trick, Aminta agrees to leave with him, and the two profess their love to each other (Don Juan/ Aminta: _All I ask of you_, however, this would be a bit faster and just as passionate as _Past the point of no return—_Almost like _La Traviata's_ ending duet). Unfortunately none of this moves the status of Don Pedro, who is there to take Don Juan with him to Hell and does not believe that the masked Don can change that quickly because of a woman. As the statue begins to sink into the ground, the statue grabs hold of Don Juan in its grasp. Don Octavio and Donna Isabela come out of hiding and sing of how they can now marry in peace, although how Don Juan finally loving someone and then sent to Hell is right punishment (Octavio/Isabela: _The wronged in peace can rest their heads_). While Don Juan begins to sink into the ground as well, the chorus of Hell begins its horrid declaration of deserved punishment in the afterlife and Aminta begins to plead with them, insisting that Don Juan is indeed changed (Chorus/ Aminta: _Off to your chains and fire you go/ Ah, but if he is that man no more…_). Aminta is so certain of her love for Don Juan that she sacrifices her own life so that she may save Don Juan in the after life, in order for them to be together.


	7. Chapter Six

_Hello there!_

_Apologizes for waiting a while before updating. I needed a few days to rest and recuperate before finishing this chapter up. I most likely won't be posting until Sunday evening or so- I'll be on a train from Friday to Saturday. Also, on an additional note: As you'll be able to notice from this chapter, I've also been leaning a bit toward the Kay version of Phantom, so we'll see how this progresses from here. Have a wonderful day, readers! And thank you of all of your sweet comments!_

_Ever yours, _

**_The Soprano in Shadow_**

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><p>"Miss Daae, if we can take the death scene between the two lovers—we'll begin as though the chorus just finished their bit in 'Off to your chains', and begin with Aminta's aria. Now the statue of Don Pedro isn't ready, but the other one is, so we'll just pretend it's over there. Octavio, Isabela and chorus, take your places too. Mr. Destler, would you mind filling in for our Don Juan again?" The composer nodded at the stage director's request and jumped onto the stage.<p>

All emotions and thoughts that he had of her were completely wiped out of his mind—it was time to get serious again. As he strode toward center stage, his golden eyes met the hazel ones of Miss Daae—although she _did_ ask him to call her Christine—and instead of his trademark smirk that he had worn the past two days, he gave her a gentle half smile.

"Now let's see what you can do for this scene, Miss Daae," he said quietly as they got into positions. Quietly, Christine nodded as she took her place beside the statue, and Erik knelt on the ground as the statue had already grabbed hold of Don Juan. As the orchestra began to play her cue, Christine began filling her diaphragm with air, as the plea of a young woman in love took over the stage.

"_Ah, but if he is that man no more, _

_than death should not beg for his soul! _

_Death should not beg! _

_He is no longer of the shadows. _

_His life is mine, _

_he need not be sent to the pit of fire._

_If I must, shall I too choose my life to give? _

_Will that be proof enough for you, _

_both mad and hungry for blood? Ahhh!"_

Christine's sweet voice pleaded to the house that would be filled on opening night in less than half a week. Erik gazed up at Christine, her face turned up to the heavens as the lights captured her heartbroken and love-filled face. Yes, she was beautiful and strong—she filled his entire being with a sense of fulfillment and peace, even when they were arguing. She was an enigma. He may have only met the women this week, but that was all the time he needed. He was inspired, and his musical being was on fire with music he wanted to write _only for her_.

Christine looked down at her Don Juan, cupping his unmasked cheek with her hand for a moment, then sliding down until she was holding his hand, as she sang on.

"_If I must, I shall choose to give _

_this life that will prove to all. _

_Prove his worth, and mine for his._

_Ah! This dagger shall bite my flesh _

_and twine our eternity together._

_For I shall fight with fate, _

_until fate brings to me he who loves me most!"_

Finally hitting the final note of the aria, Christine raised a makeshift dagger and pretended to thrust it into her breast and collapsed onto the ground as she held tightly to Erik's hand, which would allow Aminta to be dragged to Hell with Don Juan and be judged.

The trap door below them opened as fog spread thickly onto the stage. As they dropped to the cushioned ground below, darkness hit the stage and a statue of the lovers in a passionate embrace rose up in the place of Don Pedro's. A single spotlight shone on the statue as the orchestra finally reached the end of the opera ending on a sweet chord that would help the audience believe that Don Juan's soul was cleansed and resting eternally with that of Aminta's.

Christine began to tear up as stared at the statue, and Erik watched as she began to cry lightly. Alarmed, Erik rushed over to her, afraid that she may have injured herself in some way. "Miss Daae, are you alright?"

Christine sniffled. "I'm alright, Mr. Destler, thank you though. It's just… this opera. It's so— so—." She broke off unable to finish her thought, but Erik understood.

_This_ was his masterpiece. The angel who loved the devil. The light that loved the darkness. **The beautiful that loved the damned**. _This_ was his one hope in life: to be loved. For someone else to understand and see it the way he did… he was grateful. To be fair, she was the one soprano who was asked to perform in all of his operas, but now Erik understood why. While she may have been too pure to understand the dark passion between Don Juan and Aminta through the seduction, she understood what real acceptance for someone was, and that meant the world to him.

"Let's get you upstairs and back in the light," Erik said gruffly, choking back his own emotions as he helped the young soprano up.

Christine allowed the masked composer to pull her up, but kept hold of his arm as he tried to lead her back to the company. "Erik. Your mask. What's behind it?"

Her quiet question startled him. He couldn't bear to look at her after Christine asked the one question Erik had hoped she wouldn't ask. "In the Organization, Miss Daae, they send me out to execute those who are mad beyond help. They call me both 'Death's Angel' and 'Hell Bringer'. They call me those because of what lies beneath. If you wish to stay as my friend in this life, I suggest that you never ask again." _However, if you wish to love me, then ask me again, and I shall show it to you, angel. _Mentally Erik almost wished Christine could hear his thoughts. He wished that she would continue asking. But she didn't, and that answered his silent question. "We should be heading back upstairs."

He led her back in silence, both pondering their own thoughts, both trying to hard not to look at the other. When they got back to the stage, they smiled and rejoiced with the others upon finishing the staging. But both were thinking the same thing.

_Where do we go from here?_

…

_It was midnight, and he couldn't sleep. After tossing around for several hours, Erik gave up and walked into the apartment's kitchen. Perhaps some warm milk would help him tonight? But he knew what kept him from sleep. Christine. The woman who held his heart in her dainty hands, but had no idea. She could ruin him. But maybe he wanted to be ruined. _

_As if hearing his thoughts, she appeared by the window, wearing a nightgown and robe, watching the nighttime stars through the large window. Although the back of her was bathed in moonlight, the rest of her body was hidden in shadow. He stood there silent for a moment, drinking in the sight of her, then cautiously approached her and laid a hand on her shoulder. _

"_Why will you not leave me alone, Christine? Why must you torment me even when I sleep? You have no idea of what I feel."_

_She only turned around in response, and Erik recoiled at the sight of her, because it wasn't Christine. It was instead the solemn face of Luciana. _

"_Christine?" Luciana spat the name back at him as though it were dirt, her face scrunched up in anger. "Who is this Christine? Do you love her? Do I know longer matter know that I'm dead? Will you spill her innocent blood as well and bleed her dry?" At her final words, the ghosts face began to decay until all that was left was her haunted skeleton. "Will you make her become like me?"_

Erik sat up suddenly, his face covered in beads of sweat, chest heaving, as he covered the damaged half of his face. It was only a dream: a combination of his past with future fears. Turning, he glanced at the clock by his bed and groaned. It was two in the morning.

Tonight was the opening of his masterpiece, and he would need all of his energy in the evening, in order to get everyone settled with the leading tenor. Then the performance would be a success (hopefully), and the societal after-event would be his main concern in trying to get away from it as soon as possible. Perhaps he could call in his associate Nadir in order to cause a diversion so that he could make his escape from the crowds.

He lay back in bed and stared at the ceiling, thinking of both of the women that had affected his life: the past and the future. Both women tortured his life, but where one tortured him sweetly with challenges and innocently passionate eyes, the other tortured his mind with guilt and regret. One lived in reality and the other lived in death.

…

Christine scowled as she sat in the chair impatiently, as the head of costume and makeup oversaw the arranging of her hair. _Why did all of this have to take so long?_ Act One had begun about twenty minutes ago, and the soprano was itching for a sneak peak of who her Don Juan would be.

"Alright Miss Daae, you're all set. However, Mr. Destler has requested that you wait here until you are called up for Act Two," the stage director said, popping her head inside the dressing room in order to evaluate the female lead's opening outfit.

Huffing in exasperation, Christine rolled her eyes as she glared at her own image in the mirror. _That man is going to pay big time when we get back to the apartment_.

Catching the eye of her Batricio in the mirror, Nathaniel Mongielli, Christine's scowl changed to a smile as he approached her, and kissed her cheek. Both Italian bred in Brooklyn and an utter flirt, the soprano sometimes wondered how it was that he had stayed married for so long. Behind him, the curtain had just closed for the end of Act One, which meant that she would meet her Don Juan soon enough.

"Bella!" he exclaimed quietly, as he glanced up and down her form approvingly. Offering a light blush in response, Christine offered him her most luminous smile as got up from her seat and twirled around him in her peasant clothes. "Why don't I take you out for a glass of wine tonight in celebration, yeah? You have no one to go home to tonight, yes?" Nathaniel asked, his eyes sparkling with mischievousness.

"I may not, Nathaniel, however, you do." With that, the tenor gave her a small look of amusement, kissed her hand, and made his way to the stage for his opening place in the opera, with Christine not so far behind her.

Eagerly, Christine glanced at both sides of the wings, as the orchestra began to play the opening lines of music for Act Two, then remembered that there was still a full chorus and duet to sing before Don Juan's entrance because of his costume change into clean clothes. Rolling her eyes in annoyance, she took her place across from Nathaniel as the curtains began to open, and pasted on a smile. This was the first time she would be seen in the world premiere of this opera, and _like hell_ would she embarrass herself onstage!

"_Oh joyous day of rapture!_

_Oh joyous, oh joyous day_

_of time to squander. _

_Let our voice of praise onto those who ask, _

_those who ask for love. _

_Let this day tie the two…"_

As the chorus began their opening lines singing, Christine mentally began to time the entrance of Don Juan as she remembered what Andre had told her earlier that day…

...

"_Now Christine, remember. You'll have less than two minutes for this client between Act Two and Intermission. He won't be expecting you, but he'll also know who you really are, and the last thing we need is for people to think that one of the world's current opera diva is an assassin."_

_Grimly, Christine nodded at Andre's warning. That would be definitely bad for business. Picking up the folder that contained all of her client's data, Christine studied the military buzz cut, the cold gray eyes and the look that he was up to nothing good. _

"_Francis Werger? What kind of name is that? Why was he targeted?" Christine asked, curious about her newest client. _

"_Darling, it's 'Franz-Is Ver-ger'," Andre corrected the soprano. "And he's the current ring leader for some drug operation here in New York. His main weakness is opera, which is why Madame signed you down for this. He always has bodyguards by the door upon entering his box, however Mr. Werger here is not a fan of allowing others to see him get emotional during an opera. Which is why he pays the opera house large amounts of money for a solid black curtain to separate his box from the others. So you will have less than thirty seconds to sneak into his box, take care of him, and then leave the box before the doors are opened for the house. The minute you're no longer onstage and Don Juan begins singing his aria, you must strike then. Got it, Cat?"_

_Christine nodded at the instructions. That didn't seem hard enough._

…

"_Ah what joyous day!"_ That was her cue from the chorus, as they began to freeze in place. She glanced at Nathaniel as they both drew in breath and began their duet together.

"_Ah for he must forget!" "Ah Tisbea! You know not—"_

"_And I must love! But ah!" "My pain is filled with salt of you!"_

"_Why this man, he who loves another?" "Will you not hear my pleas?"_

As their duet began, Christine realized that this would mean Don Juan was already on stage, however his back would be to her, since he would be speaking with Passarino.

"_Tisbea, this day is clouded in shadow!" "His love is far, so why not follow?"_

"_Must this girl be mine?" "Must this man be him who loves me not? Ah—!"_

Nathaniel paused as Christine began her cadenza, and looked at him mournfully. Then this would be the final line of the duet. Maybe after this act, he would try again? His wife was off in Europe for her own opera career, and he was lonely. As his eyes roamed the stage, they paused and caught the eyes of a red haired beauty. Or maybe he wouldn't try again.

"_What misery we shall be together!" "Ah, Tisbea! Tisbea! My heart!"_

They paused staring sadly at the other, both chests heaving, as the house was filled with applause and the chorus came back to life once more. Christine tried once more to glance behind her, only to realize that it wouldn't be until Aminta runs off and Don Juan follows her, when she would be able to see who the singer was. _What a pain!_ She turned her face towards upstage in an attempt to try closing her eyes and blocking them from the light.

"_Oh cruel fates, what joke is this?" _Her eyes snapped open as the rich baritone voice reached her ears. _"What trickery would this be to truly love? Has Cupid gone and thrust an arrow? Has this village girl taken the last beat of my heart?"_ What a voice! Although she may have had a weakness for baritones in the past, she had never heard anything like this!

She glanced at Nathaniel who lipped "Wow" and Christine now wished that she had chosen where Nathaniel was standing, in order to see who this was first.

"_Fate has been so kind until now, _

_but this maiden has ropes round my beating heart of fire!"_

As Don Juan turned and walked towards the audience, Christine wondered when she would finally be able to see who it was. All she could still see was the back of his dark hair, and she was becoming impatient.

"_Ah, cruel fates! _

_Shall you now have me love? _

_Or shall I take her and leave? _

_But, ah! Her smile,_

_sweet temptress of innocence!"_

At the end of Don Juan's aria, he turned away from the audience, and stalked towards the chorus. As he sang about who he was, Christine turned, only to be blocked off by a wall of chorus members. _Was she _never_ going to see this man?_

Motioning to his servant, Don Juan handed Passarino a large sack of gold in order to lure the other villagers away. As the villagers sang their next chorus _("Ah his master, how kind he is!")_, Passarino led them offstage, leaving behind the lovely Aminta and Don Juan.

However, she _still_ couldn't look at him! For Aminta _still_ had to sing more! Christine internally groaned—did this girl do nothing _but_ sing?

"_Ah, fates if my voice reaches the heavens,_

_why must this be so? _

_For if your intent is to cast my life in sadness,_

_Thy goals have been complete—I cry."_

"_Little one, do not distress…"_ Don Juan's response caused Christine's character, Aminta, to be startled as she saw that she wasn't alone. Glancing at him, Aminta cowered away from the powerful Don on stage, and looked away from him—the very picture of shy and meek.

As Christine sang the recitative of _"For he loves one who is not me!"_, Christine's eyes met the mysterious masked baritone, and all she could think of doing was remembering to breathe.

Those beautiful eyes haunted her mind after that glance as she sang her aria about be unwilling to marry a man who held no love for her. For those five seconds, that had melted her insides to the core, and it took all of her experience as an opera singer to _not_ run offstage and drag him off with her. For the rest of Scene One, she couldn't take her eyes off of his own, forgetting about the man himself. Any motion she made, any thoughts she had, were for those eyes alone.

As Aminta outwardly thanked the kind Don for assisting her in attaining her fiancé, Christine made her way offstage dazed and confused. How had she never seen this baritone onstage before?

Nathaniel rushed over to her quietly backstage as she took a large slurp of water. "Can you believe it? I wonder what the press is going to be saying about all of this! He has some nerve!" The tenor rushed off seconds after his words, leaving Christine confused. _What was he talking about? What exactly was going on?_

She walked over to the chorus members who were whispering amongst themselves excitedly. "Can someone tell me what's going on, please? Does anyone know who Don Juan is?"

One of the blonde chorus members looked at her amazed. "You didn't recognize him?" she asked flabbergasted. Christine shook her head in response, just as the director of the chorus came over and shushed all of them because of their noise.

Even more confused about what she was missing, Christine headed over to the wings of stage right, in order to have a better look at the baritone, nearly bumping into the man himself in her hurry. As she stared up at those eyes again, Christine still couldn't help but forget everything that she was trying to figure out. That is until the masked man smirked, leaned forward and whispered in her ear before moving away from her quickly in order to get into place.

"Don't forget, _angel_: sing like you mean it."


	8. Chapter Seven

_Hello there!_

_Well, well, it looks like Erik has finally shown his true intentions to Christine. Now, while a lot of people may have said that this was rather predictable, my apologies. However, I've always wanted to write up a situation where Erik dumbfounds her, only because I think that in the book, she doesn't have the opportunities to be this curious. The Phantom more waits on her hand and foot, so Erik might not be the __same__ Erik that you know, but he's the Erik I've had pictured in my mind for this fanfic. Yes, there will be some more surprises coming your way soon, however bear with me. _

_I tried my best for this chapter not to use a lot of the "Point of No Return" lyrics, because I didn't want to make all of you take the time to read it again- I'm sure all of you know exactly how that duet goes._

_Also, the layout I use for this opera house is not the Metropolitan Opera House, even though I am using its name. This is one that I've built in my mind that is the fruit of many opera houses combined._

_I know this is technically my "first fanfic" under this pen name, but I'd really like to see how much I can stretch this out. I mean we do have a couple months to go in New York for both Christine and Erik, and then after that they have their whole lifetime together. Don't worry- I'll make sure to end this fanfic when it's necessary. No sooner and no later. Bye for now, darlings, and thank you so much for your support by reading and commenting!_

_Ever yours,_

**_The Soprano in Shadow_**

_PS: I have just finally gotten wifi, so that I could upload this chapter. Don't hate, please. This was the earliest I could upload. Deepest apologies. However, I have had to write the next chapter, so it will be up in the next day or so. _

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><p>The blood pounded in her ears as Christine tried her best to calm her anger and embarrassment before her entrance onstage. As Monsieur Reyers held the orchestra on a soft chord, Christine smoothened her features and walked on stage, with the look of a girl in love.<p>

"_No thoughts within her head_

_but thoughts of joy. _

_No dreams within her heart _

_but dreams of love!"_

As she sang this and sat on the stage floor, her mind raced ahead of her. This whole time _he_ was Don Juan? How was that even possible? Had he done this to spite her? Quickly, Christine erased that thought—if Mr. Destler had really wanted to do that, he could have announced that at the press conference. No… there had to be _some_ reason.

"_Passarino, go away_

_for the trap is set, _

_and waits for its prey."_

Don Juan had entered. Christine swallowed. There was no going back now. She would have to do this, and do this right. Or not only would he have her swooning on stage, but also her head.

"_You have come here_

_in pursuit of your deepest urge._

_In pursuit of that wish which till now _

_Has been silent. Silent…"_

Christine closed her eyes as she allowed his voice to wash over her. This powerful, rich voice—_how had she been without it all of these years?_

"_What warm unspoken secrets will we learn,_

_beyond the point of no return?"_

The ending of his verse meant the start of hers. This was her one chance to show him that she _could _do it. Drawing in breath, Christine flashed her mind back to the way the man before her had made her feel when he held her during rehearsing this song. She needed _that_. And then, she sang.

Erik watched her as she sang towards the audience, with her back to him. He tried not to break from this character, partially in amusement and partially in awe of how ravishing she looked, when she stalked towards him with her opening lines. He could tell that Christine had been surprised right when he had spoken to her before her duet. He had seen the way her eyes flashed at the sound of his voice, and almost wished he could have smirked.

"_Now I am here with you._

_No second thoughts. I've decided. Decided."_

As she sang those words, she faced him, and he caught a flash of her eyes darkening over with passion, her voice laced with excitement, wonder, confusion… all of the emotions that Aminta was supposed to feel.

But what did Christine feel?

Erik almost wished that he could read her mind right then, because while her body was saying, "come hither", her mind certainly may not have been. He had no clue.

And now began their duet, and their trek up to the scaffold.

"_Past the point of no return, the final threshold._

_The bridge is crossed so stand and watch it burn._

_We've passed the point of no return."_

Feeling the warmth of his body against her back, Christine waited for his small interlude. They had never practiced this part before, because of Christine's determination to "wait for opening night", and she was nervous.

"_Say you'll share with me _

_one love, one lifetime. _

_Lead me, save me from my solitude."_

As he sung this to the audience, Erik could feel these words becoming real. Originally he had composed them with Luciana in mind, but Christine was different. She would accept him… wouldn't she?

"_Say you want me with you _

_here, beside you._

_Anywhere you go, let me go too._

_That's all I ask of—"_

Aminta cut her Don Juan off, as she turned his face towards her and kissed him passionately as the orchestra swelled to a climax. This was why Christine refused to practice this part of the scene. She had been afraid of what she would feel if she kissed him, and she still was. The shiver that ran down her spine didn't help much either. Christine wished that she could have stepped away from the intensity of this man, but until the technical crew dimmed the lights, they were stuck lip locking. Not that she _really_ minded, honestly.

However, this had thrown Mr. Erik Destler, world-renowned composer and now baritone, completely off.

He had expected her to put in as much effort as a codfish when they reached this portion of the scene. He had expected her to simply wrap her arms around his neck, press her lips against his, and leave them there until the lights were dimmed.

He had _not_ expected to find her tongue asking for entrance into _his_ mouth.

The lights dimming seemed to awaken Christine from her attempt to map out the inside of the masked man's mouth. However, there was no time for them to look startled now. As quietly as possible, the pair reached the bottom of the stairs as the crew pushed out a large, masculine bed. Slipping into the robe that had been laid on the bed by the crew, Christine gave a quick nod to Erik, who now was found sitting on the bed.

As the lights rose back up, and the orchestra continued its music of gaiety in order to express the happiness and love found between the both of them, the audience was treated to the view of how much Don Juan had grown to love Aminta. They were just giggling and talking on the bed, as Christine began her aria of affection and love for the Don.

"_Fickle fate has cast her _

_shadow of cruel fate. _

_For though it is certain _

_that certain affection has been given, _

_it is through certain knowing, _

_certain knowing, Ah—_

_Batricio, that Fate should have me love another!_

_Tis truth, yet hold it not against_

_my heart!_

_Ah, Don Juan!"_

As Christine moved downstage towards the audience, her hands clasped to her breast, as she turned to look at the man who was half hidden in shadow and had stolen her heart away.

"_Aminta, sweet dear_

_I wish to tell you of my journey to this day._

_For I must confess. _

_Ah, Aminta!"_

Her character's attention was drawn away from the baritone, and to the set's door slamming open as her supposed fiancé stormed cheerfully into Don Juan's chambers, followed by a nervous Passarino.

"_I am to leave, but _

_my need to thank you for your council_

_urged my feet to hasten here, good friend._

_Ah, Don Juan, how you have saved my soul_

_From years of guilt!"_

Batricio's cheerful song of gratefulness died short, as the tenor realized who else was in the room.

"_Aminta…"_

"_Ah! Batricio! But if you are there_

_then who is it that has stolen..._

_Ah, Don Juan! You have deceived my heart!"_

"_Aminta…"_

This time it was Erik's turn to sing the lovely gypsy girl's name, as he kept his eyes focused on Christine's heartbroken face. Besides on stage, he never wanted to see her face like this again. And he would do everything in his power to keep that statement true.

"_False one, was I only to be your prey…"_

"_This pitiful soul yearns for only your love, sweet Aminta!"_

"_Creature of deception, what devilry has taken your heart?"_

"_Make hast and flee, good master! For you have plucked…"_

As the quartet began, Christine eyed the box that had been alienated from the others with a sold black velvet curtain, and then zoomed in on the shadowed figure. So _this_ was Francis Werger—at least his box was at the very end of the row. Mentally she began to plan her route up to the targeted box.

She would take the ladder backstage up to the catwalk and then swing around to the inside of the theater. From there, she would have to climb the sides of the statues and carvings within the theater itself—that would be the trickiest part, in order to ensure that no one saw her from within the shadows. Then she would have to pull herself up into his box, kill, and then knock on the box's door five times in a syncopated rhythm in order to signal that the client was taken care of. From there, she would rush out from the main door, scurry past the main foyer, and then make it back to the rehearsal and backstage side of the building before anyone missed her.

Piece of cake.

"_Your words drip poison and lust. _

_Ah! Don Juan, you now must leave!"_

With Christine's final words filled with mournful heartbreak, Aminta fled the stage, leaving the two leading men to sort out the remainder of the quartet. Casting a quick smile at some of the chorus members, Christine waited until the singers went back to their idle gossip, before quickly leaping onto the ladder, and gracefully climbing the rungs.

Mentally Christine followed along with the duet being sung below as she double-checked the location of the needles that had been sewn into the skirt of her costume. Long thin needles, the tips were flat and sharp, almost giving the impression of a thin scalpel. When accurately thrown with the right technique, the needle could paralyze or even instantly kill a target.

While the brunette enjoyed her blades, Christine also enjoyed using these small weapons—barely noticeable and silent as a snake, the target wouldn't even know what had hit them before they went down. Quick, effortless and painless.

Grimacing at the lack of support she would be getting from holding onto the stone statues that were attached to the walls of the opera house, Christine looked down at the audience that was still enraptured by the men on stage and then slowly began to slide a needle out of the skirt. Steadying her hand, Christine, flipped the needle around in her hand a couple of times to get a feel for the lighter weapon, before sending it in the air with a flick of her wrist.

Quietly she grinned, as she stabilized herself once more on the statue before sliding out another needle. _Just one more to be sure_. Mentally she thought of the lack of arms that would be on the black market, and she grinned. This was for the better of mankind.

Procuring the same amount of grace that she had used during the first throw, Christine sent a follow-up needle to be sure of her aim. Even if her aim was rarely off. She glanced at the stage, and noticed the masked baritone glance right at her, as the two men reached the climax of the duet, before the furious Batricio also stormed off stage. Giving a quick thumbs up, that only one with catlike eyes could see, Erik began the finale of the act _a tempo_. He and Christine had worked out signals that she would have shown the primo baritone on stage in the case of her needing more time. But of course she didn't.

She _was_ Christine Daae after all.

Hoisting herself up into the box, Christine glanced down at the crumpled body then quietly knocked on the door, before going back to the body, intending to check for a pulse.

The warm smell of blood reached her nose before she could reach the corpse. Following her gut instinct, Christine turned the front of the man over and scanned the body before quickly exiting the box, and taking the route she had already planned out.

While her face betrayed no emotion, her inside were churning. Christine was beyond anger. She was worried. Worried because her needles hadn't killed the man splayed out on the private box's floor.

Because you can't kill a man if he's already dead.


	9. Chapter Eight

_Hello there!_

_I just wanted to say thank you to everyone who has been patient with my odd updating schedule, and also to everyone who has reviewed this story so far- I really appreciate it. _

_Anyway, apologies for that last chapter not being as long as the others- I was having a bit of a time working with the plot that I had already set. This chapter is probably the longest I've written so far- lots of drama. _

_Enough from me, I guess. I hope everyone enjoys this newest chapter._

_Ever yours,_

**_The Soprano in Shadow_**

* * *

><p>Making her way backstage, her eyes met the golden ones of Erik Destler, and she rushed over to him as the stage crew began to construct the final set for the opera.<p>

"How did everything go?" Erik asked quietly, trying to search her eyes and understand why she seemed so… confused.

"Something isn't right, Mr. Destler. First you were assigned to take care of my client as well, and now this. What is going on?" Christine asked shakily in return, still in shock of what had just happened.

Alarmed, Erik grabbed hold of her shoulders, attempting to try and understand as he tried to calm her down. "What happened, Christine? Tell me." Her name escaped from his lips before it had even registered.

She gazed into his eyes with her own cloudy ones as she said quietly, "He was already dead. Slashed throat. But not with a blade— it looked like someone tore his throat open with something. Like a hook of sorts."

Erik stared at the brunette in disbelief. Antoinette wouldn't pull something like this. And while he knew that little Meg was responsible for assigning him as Christine's second on this long term assignment, he knew that she would never do something to deliberately harm the person she saw as her own flesh and blood.

Which meant that the Organization was in danger. Someone was leaking information.

"I need to call Antoinette as soon as the opera is over. Miss Daae, as soon as the performance is over, I need you to 'fall ill'… It'll only be for tonight. Find Andre and Firmin— they should be at tonight's performance because of the client. Get back to the apartment and wait for me. Don't call anyone. _Anyone_. Understood? I will contact Antoinette immediately, and alert her. You will be safest there." Christine nodded at the sudden outburst from the eccentric composer before her.

Erik sighed, a headache beginning to form. "Now, I need you to take this out of your mind. We must get through this—the sooner we finish, the sooner you'll be safe. Can you do that for me?" Again Christine nodded, as she walked away from the masked man in a daze.

Then she stopped, turned and gave him a slight smile. "You said my name without me asking. It sounded nice… coming from you."

She left him standing there speechless, as she went to change costumes for the final act. Apparently there was room for two shocked singers backstage that evening.

…

As the leading couple sank through the trap door while the audience above gave a standing ovation, Christine turned and smiled at the young middle-aged composer.

"Well at least you got the audience reaction that you were looking for. I still don't understand why you were so worried."

"The only reason why they are reacting so positively, Miss Daae, is because I gave them their happy ending. How do you think they would have reacted if Aminta had killed herself, but not for her lover? Or, what if Don Juan only saw Aminta as yet another conquest? There would have been no plot. I needed to give the opera a happy ending so that everyone could believe in the possibility of love being that strong," Erik responded almost gruffly as if trying to avoid the topic.

_It was back to 'Miss Daae', was it?_ Christine would almost be amused at the fact that he couldn't say her name… if only she _could_ be amused. She was still shaken up from earlier. Yet… this man not saying her name had shaken her up even more?

Shaking her head to get those thoughts out of her head, Christine gathered her skirts up and began to walk back toward the stage—they would be sorely needed at curtain call after all, and Christine was never one to disappoint her public. Besides, she refused to think of the composer as nothing more than her partner for the next three months. And fake lover, "fake" being the key word.

Erik kept his pace slower than normal, so that he could allow her space ahead of him to think. He had said too much. He had pushed her away, without even meaning to. Mentally, Erik berated himself for not thinking before speaking. He could almost imagine poor Luciana smiling at him mockingly. _Idiotic girl. _

As the applause from the audience grew closer, Erik placed his hand on her arm to stop her for only a second. "You'll go back to the apartment like we agreed, right? I'll be right there in an hour or two." Erik saw the back of her head nod, and then released her, as she made her way on stage. Apparently everyone had been waiting for them.

Erik led his leading lady forward as the soprano sank into a deep curtsy, and he himself gave a bow as a formal gesture of thanking the house. Joining hands with the rest of the singers, conductor and both musical and stage directors, everyone bowed as the audience continued roaring their appreciation of the opera. Again, Erik and Christine stepped forward and acknowledged their audience.

Another five minutes in front of the curtain, and Christine was ready to be done. She was feeling too warm in even her simple country costume, and the lights were making her feel dizzy under their heat.

"Mr. Destler, I'm not feeling quite well. I think I need to head back to the apartment and lie down for some time."

The composer looked at her, and realized that she wasn't just saying this to leave the opera house—she really was feeling ill.

"Alright. Have some tea. I'll be back shortly." The composer walked into his own dressing room, as she walked to hers, in order to undress and clean off all of the makeup. However he was not in there alone.

"Everyone out. Please!" Erik snapped, needing—no, craving—to be alone. No one else needed to see this. As the few makeup professionals and assistants hurried out, Erik closed the door with a slam, and then sank heavily into his chair. He slid his mask off and stared back at the reflection in the mirror.

He was a horror.

How could that beautiful young soprano _ever_ love him? Erik shook his head in disbelief at his own idiotic dreams, as he began wiping off the makeup he had applied earlier. Any thoughts of wanting her needed to be crushed. Now. She would never love him. Not after seeing what was under the mask. Which is why she could never see _this_.

The door swung open—in his haste to be left alone, Erik had forgotten to lock it. The woman of his thoughts had come barging in, barely giving the now unmasked man the time to hide the monstrosity of his face. All he could do was sit in shock and stare at the soprano's reaction in the mirror. "Mr. Destler, I'm sorry to interrupt you, but I—Oh!"

Christine looked up, and saw his face in the mirror. She stared at the part Grecian God, part… disfigured. It looked as though someone had burned his flesh off, and then mutilated what was left of it. But that was it. Was that _all_ he had been trying to hide?

Erik watched her face as she looked at his, hungrily waiting for her to faint, or to scream.

But that never came.

"I understand now, Mr. Destler," Christine said quietly, closing the door behind her and locking it quickly so that no one else could see his reflection. "The happy ending of _Don Juan_ was never for the audience, was it? I've performed in your works enough to know that you would never only give half of yourself for each opera _just_ to make the audience happy. You always give them _everything_, whether they want it or not. That ending was for—"

"Me. Yes. I thought that maybe I could believe that there is an Aminta out there who is willing to show love for this wretched and monstrous Don Juan," Erik spat out angrily, as he sprang out of his chair, and paced menacingly towards the soprano.

She didn't even flinch.

"Why aren't you screaming? Or fainting? You certainly caused a scene at the restaurant the other evening! Why not cause one now? Why not show _everyone_ what a monster I am!" Erik shouted, demanding to know. This girl could get shaken up because her client was already dead, but she wasn't shaken up about staring Death in the face?

Quietly she approached the tense man. "May I?" she asked quietly. Seeing him nod, she reached up and cupped the disfigured cheek of the other assassin.

"Why are you alright with this, Miss Daae?" He asked in response to her touch. He was amazed at how calm she was being. No one was ever calm. This is why he worked alone.

"When you're forced to watch your father being murdered," she responded in equal calmness, "you open your eyes to everything else in the world."

He stood there looking at her silently.

"I just wanted to let you know that I was leaving, and to ask Antoinette to call me after you have spoken to her," Christine said as she turned and unlocked the door. "Oh and Mr. Destler? You're still one of the most attractive men I've seen. Don't let anyone else make you feel anything less."

And then she was gone.

Erik sat down on the plush couch that had been housed within his dressing room, as he grabbed his mask. Pulling out his cell phone, Erik dialed the mistress of the Organization.

"Antoinette? It's me. I don't _care_ if it's two in the bloody morning over there. I need to be on the next redeye out there. We need to talk."

…

He had never returned to the apartment, and she had never called. It had been thirteen hours since she had walked in on him, and there was nothing. No news, no explanations, nothing. The opera house had called to congratulate her on the premiere last night, and then informed her that the opera tonight was cancelled because the composer himself called due to her "illness". Which meant that he wasn't intending to return. At least not today.

Christine sat on the leather couch in the living room, waiting. Andre and Firmin had already given up trying to stay awake, and were now asleep. They would probably wake up soon, but that didn't really matter. So now it was just her sitting there. Alone.

Again.

Christine hated being alone. As much as she was a loner in the Organization, she enjoyed her day job so much, for the sole reason of simply _wanting_ to be around others. And just when she had thought that she and Mr. Destler could maybe become friends, he disappears.

The brunette sighed as she reached into her sweatpants and pulled her cell phone out of her pocket. She knew exactly who to call.

…

Meg glanced at her phone and audibly gulped as she saw who it was – her best friend, basically her sister. Looking up, Meg watched the scene unfold between her mother and the masked assassin within her mother's office, as the two could be faintly heard shouting through the soundproofed office.

Her mother had sternly instructed her to neither answer nor make any calls to Christine. She watched as the call ended, and the missed call notification appeared.

An idea popped into her mind: her mother never said that she couldn't _text_ Christine. She also didn't mention that she couldn't send any recordings to Christine either. Grinning in triumph, Meg held her phone up and clicked 'record'. This was _definitely_ a conversation that was worth hearing.

"I don't _care_ if I need to be there for the opera! I'll move the debut to another opera house and hire another soprano! I can't work with her! It's not like you're the one who signed the transfer! Make it can count as void!" Erik shouted.

But Antoinette was never one to be shouted at without spitting words back. "You've already started the job. I can't brief anyone else about this, and you certainly can't move your opera somewhere else. How do you think Christine would feel about that?"

"I think she'd survive," the masked composer mumbled.

"What about the event at the premiere? It's no coincidence that someone else hit her client first. She'll _need_ you. If we have a leak within the Organization, then she needs to be kept safe in case of emergency. We don't know who we're dealing with, or who they're targeting."

The composer seethed. "I'm no one's babysitter, Antoinette! I have better things to do than lounge about in New York, killing off easy nobodies in order to keep one bloody _prima donna_ safe!"

The sound of someone being slapped echoed within the feared Madame's office. After that, Meg could hear nothing else of their conversation as Antoinette had seen her daughter listening outside and they had lowered their voices. Shrugging, the blonde ended the recording, sending the clip off in a message to her best friend, and wandered off to find a sparring partner.

"Antoinette, she's seen me. I can't be around her. She's just so…" Erik trailed off, unable to express his thoughts. "I've been composing again in my mind, Antoinette, because of her. It's not safe. _She's_ not safe."

The stern woman's expression softened. _Was he falling in love with her?_ "Erik, not every woman is like Luciana. However, you are also susceptible to falling for every woman you have worked with."

"This is only the second time, Antoinette, and it's different," Erik said quietly, "when we kissed tonight… even though it was on stage, there was something there. As though I wasn't the only one who had felt it as well. I can't work well if I'm under the influence of a woman who won't… want to…you know. We both know that. I only want to be there if she wants _me_ there, and not just some other second."

"Erik…have you even asked her if she wanted someone else?"

Erik ran his hand through his hair in frustration—that was _beside_ the point. "Look, just send someone else to her, and I can work on my own clients alone, alright? Exactly like I'm supposed to."

Antoinette rolled her eyes—getting her point across to this man was starting to become tiresome. "Let me try and make you understand this: because of our previous Board meeting, the Organization has decided to assign specific pairs that will be finalized soon. I was hoping that the two of you could work out your differences and be good partners. No other woman is willing to work with you because of Luciana's death, and no man can deal with you because of your temper. Well, except for the de Chagny boy." Antoinette smirked evilly as she saw him wince.

"Christine or Blondielocks. Either way, you get stuck with one of them. Your choice."

…

"…_better things to do than lounge about in New York, killing off easy nobodies in order to keep one bloody _prima donna_ safe!"_

Christine sat there stiff as she continued to rewind and playback that one statement over and over.

"…_babysitter…better things to do…killing off easy nobodies…keep one bloody _prima donna_ safe!"_

She didn't know whether to be angry or sad.

But she was definitely hurt.

Hurt because she had tried to reach out to him, and he turned around and said this about her. Angry because he had just upped and left. And sad? Sad because he promised he would be back in an hour or two. And he had never come back.

It had almost been twenty-four hours now. She should probably try and get some sleep. If he didn't care enough about her, then he wasn't coming back. In a burst of anger, Christine threw her phone against the living room wall, causing a dent in the wallpaper, and a crack on the phone's screen. It didn't matter—she could always get another one. Dejectedly, Christine trudged past the couple playing chess in their kitchen before slamming the door to her bedroom behind her. Sleep for her would probably be best at this point for everyone.

Firmin looked towards Christine's door worriedly. "Will she be alright, Andre? We warned him not to hurt her…"

Andre shook his head. In this sort of case, he had no idea what to do. He believed that he understood the masked composer's frustrations, however neither man knew what had occurred the evening before in said composer's dressing room. "Let's just leave them for now, Firmin. We'll intercede when the time is right. We'll never let her be hurt like _that_ ever again. Check."

Firmin moved his knight in order to protect his king from getting captured. "Maybe we should call Raoul? He _would_ know what the best thing for her would be. He is her best friend after all."

Andre gave him a look as he moved his queen to take out the knight. "Check."

Firmin moved his queen.

"Checkmate."

Firmin pouted. "That's not fair! You won again! You always win. If you loved me…"

"No, I wouldn't let you win. Then you wouldn't get better. Chess is very good for helping one's mind grow."

"Are you calling my brain immature?" The front door being closed interrupted their petty bickering, as they both turned to see who had entered.

"Mr. Destler? I thought you weren't…" Firmin trailed off at the warning look that his partner gave him. Best not to interfere.

"Good evening, Andre and Firmin. Do you know where Miss Daae is? We have things that need to be discussed," the composer said tiredly as he fell onto the exact same spot on the sofa where Christine had been sitting. Glancing down, he saw the phone on the floor, and the phone sized mark in the wall. "Do I want to know what happened?"

Andre raised his eyebrows, as he reached down to pick up the object of Christine's earlier rage. "Why, are you going to just assume that she's being childish again?"

Erik looked at him in confusion. "What?"

Giving him another look, Andre turned with Christine's phone in hand and headed to the soprano's room, unaware that he was being followed. It would be best for her to know that Erik was back. He shook her gently, and instantly felt bad for disturbing her after she emitted a tired groan.

"This better be good, Andre. I was sleeping," Christine said flatly, not realizing that she had more than one visitor.

"I'm surprised. I would have expected you to be an early riser. Not a lazy singer." Christine froze at the sound of Erik's voice, then she was out of bed instantly.

"What are you doing in here, _Mr. Destler_?" she asked quietly, trying to keep her temper in check, "I don't appreciate unannounced guests in my bedroom."

"I just wanted to check and make sure you were still alive. Excuse me for caring," Erik snapped, turning his back to leave.

What he least expected was to feel the tip of a cold blade pressed against the nape of his neck. He turned around to see Christine's eyes lit with fire.

"_Excuse you for caring?_ Really? You want to go with that? What, did Antoinette send you back here _crawling_, because she wouldn't let you leave this assignment?" Christine asked angrily as she pressed the blade a bit too close to his jugular for emphasis.

"What are you talking about? I've been out all day running errands—" Erik was cut off by a howl of outrage that he didn't know the soprano had in her.

"You're choosing to lie right now? Really?" Christine tried to stay in control of herself. "What gives _you_ the right to lie? You didn't give a damn about my safety twelve hours ago, or you would have been here! And now you think you can come traipsing in here telling me that you were _running errands_?_"_

_How did she know that he was lying? _"You wouldn't know the difference between me telling the truth or lying, would you?" Erik sneered. "You've probably been snoring your pretty little head off since you got back last night. _Prima donna_ all around, that's for sure."

Christine lost all sense of control just then and exploded, shouting with every fiber of energy she had left. "You _bastard_! Get out! _Get out now!_" Alarmed, the composer backed out of her room and into the hallway. _She still had more of a temper hidden in that tiny body?_ "Don't you _ever_ come back in here again, or even _assume_ that we're friends. In fact, you better start watching your back now, _Mr. Destler_, otherwise you might find a blade sticking into it one of these days!"

Adding emphasis, she slammed the door in his face, and instantly Erik could hear Andre trying his best to soothe the crying woman. A few minutes later, once her crying had subsided, Andre came out of the soprano's room, still holding her phone, and glared at him.

"You really are a complete and utter fool, you know that? I don't know what you did, but we're not helping you get back into her good graces again. You don't deserve help." Andre walked off to gossip with Firmin, but not before thrusting the woman in question's phone into his hands. "I don't know what made her so angry, but obviously something in _this_ was the cause of it."

Startled, Erik was barely able to manage a nod before Andre left to search for his lover. Glaring down at the phone, Erik walked quickly to his room, trying to not disturb the harpy who rested in her lair. Closing the door behind him, he flopped onto his bed, and began to explore the singer's phone. Peering through her text messages, Erik opened the most recent one then sat up in alarm as he realized that Meg had been the one to send it.

_Hey Cat, not allowed to make/answer calls from you. Mom being weird. Masked cutie is here though. Thought you'd want to hear this. Stay strong, luv. xx_

He took a deep breath before pressing play, and the room was instantly flooded with his own voice.

"_I don't care if I need to be there for the opera! I'll move the debut to another opera house and hire another soprano! I can't work with her! It's not like you're the one who signed the transfer! Make it count as void…_ _better things to do than lounge about in New York, killing off easy nobodies in order to keep one bloody _prima donna_ safe!"_

The recording ended there.

Erik closed his eyes in annoyance. If course this would happen to him. _Silly girl. Silly, little Megan_. Erik would be having words with her very soon.

However, he would have to admit: this wasn't her fault. It was his own. Although he had said those things out of anger, he shouldn't have shouted, knowing that everyone directly outside of Antoinette's office could probably hear him. He also probably shouldn't have said them in the first place.

Now he would have to make this up to her, and frankly Erik had no idea where to begin.


	10. Chapter Nine

_Hello there, _

_So, apparently a lot of people really liked the way I had the unmasking occur- thank you to everyone who has reviewed so far, especially: Bookgirl13, Skittlesgirl99 and Erik'sTrueAngel- you guys are my rock for commenting on almost every chapter._

_For everyone else who has/is read(ing) this, __**please, please, please review**!__! Otherwise I won't know for sure if other people out there are enjoying this or not. I would greatly appreciate it._

_A note for this a few other chapters- because they decided to not take care of some of their clients until after opening week, there won't really be that much action... as for when Christine and Erik are getting together... well, that's completely up to them. And what is everyone's thoughts on Christine's recent victim already being killed?_

_Again, thank you to everyone for your encouragement- I really appreciate it from the bottom of my heart. _

_Ever yours, _

**_The Soprano in Shadow_**

* * *

><p>A weary Christine yawned and stretched before getting out of bed that morning. Going through her morning routine, the brunette avoided mirrors, knowing that being greeted by the sight of bags beneath her most likely bloodshot eyes would not be the best of ways to start the day. She <em>did<em> have an opera to perform in the late afternoon. Christine groaned as realization began to sink in. She would have to perform the opera with that insufferable man—she was too stubborn to quit, and too proud to get fired by not showing up.

Opening her bedroom door, Christine began to walk out to the kitchen only to find that blocking her in was a breakfast tray serenading her door. A breakfast tray complete with two poached eggs, sausage links, wheat toast, a single peony in a milk bottle, five client files and a New York Times paper. Stuck onto the milk bottle was a rather large sticky note.

_Dear Miss Daae, _

_Please accept my humblest apologies for the way yesterday evening's words were exchanged. If you will permit me to, I would be honored if you would join me for an early supper post-matinee. I will eagerly await your response during warm-ups and Director's Notes at noon. _

_Humbly yours, _

_Erik Destler_

Huffing in annoyance, Christine brought the tray in and set it on her desk, grabbing the files of the clients that Erik had pulled—all of them on her own list. They had agreed to only complete the one client during opening week, so why—_Ah. That's why. _

Glancing through the files, she saw that next to the box that stated "date of termination", last night's date had been hastily written in, followed by Erik's own initials for confirmation.

Apparently Erik Destler, famed composer and now baritone, had anger issues.

Either that, or he was trying to find some new way to apologize for yesterday's actions.

Those out of the way, Christine glared at the breakfast tray in retaliation. However she couldn't help but soften at the peony set in an old-fashioned milk bottle (peonies _were_ her favorite flower). Nor could she help the gurgle of hunger coming from her stomach.

Maybe this one time, she would accept breakfast from someone she was angry with.

…

Christine made her way into the house of the theatre, hoping that Mr. Destler would not try to confront her in order to receive a response about early supper that evening. The last thing she wanted to do was sit and look pretty while the composer flounced about and tried to schmooze in order to get on her good side again. Mentally, she stopped herself from thinking like that: While Mr. Destler may have acted like a jerk, it didn't necessarily mean that he would try and pull the same moves as other guys.

Well, at least she could hope.

She could also hope that the eccentric composer wouldn't notice that she was arriving five minutes late to the Director's Notes, when the young soprano noticed that the rest of the performance's cast and crew were already seated on the stage and listening to both the director's notes and the composer's observations from on stage.

"Ah, Miss Daae, so kind of you to grace us with your presence," Erik said sarcastically, completed with a little mock bow.

Glaring at the object of her fury for the past twelve hours, Christine was surprised to see that he was back to acting his normal cocky self. Did he really think that a breakfast tray and invitation to supper was going to cut it? The composer gave her a look sending a simple message: _Now is not the time to talk about our other life_.

The moment was broken when the director once more began to discuss her notes. Taking a seat in the front row of the house, Christine began to seriously ponder what choice words she was going to use, when the sound of her name caused her to become aware of her surroundings once more.

"Christine Daae, all I really have to say is 'congratulations'! I have to say that you were in quite a rare form the previous night. I think that you really were able to pull off a wonderful job—despite the surprise of Mr. Destler's… ahem, appearance on stage thrust upon you." Christine gave a light smile in acknowledgement of the director's praise. However, it was short-lived.

"Actually, I would think the opposite," the composer cut in. "I believe that Miss Daae could have put in _a lot_ more emotion in Act Two, Scene Three. The little emotion I could see was rather disappointing, and I was standing right next to the girl." Christine huffed in annoyance, crossing her arms, as Erik looked smug. Truthfully, he would make her run through that scene over and over just so that he could feel her in his arms and believe that even for a moment, his vision on stage could be real.

"Unfortunately, Mr. Destler, we do not have the luxury of having that time today. Perhaps Miss Daae and yourself can work through these… problems in a more private setting during your personal time?" A few members of the chorus and stage crew sniggered at the director's comment, causing a blush from both of the leads. "Alright, everyone—warm ups, please! Mr. Destler, Miss Daae, a word?"

As the chorus members and the rest of the leads began to sing through several variations of warm ups, the two leads mentioned made their way over to the director.

"I _did_ see that news report a few days ago about the both of you. While I must say I'm both surprised and happy after that rocky introduction, I also request that you keep yourselves professional—_especially_ when in front of the chorus members. Which means, Mr. Destler, that you cannot use your 'composer rights' to make Miss Daae work overtime. And Miss Daae…" The director trailed off not knowing what to say, feeling as though the soprano hadn't really done anything wrong, before waving her hand away in order to dismiss the pair.

Glaring at the baritone once more in warning, Christine turned on her heel and joined the rest of the cast in warm ups, giving Erik a few moments to appreciate her retreating figure. A knee length, beige, pleated dress accentuated the creamy complexion of the soprano's legs, and the bold colored heels she had chosen to wear with the ensemble also highlighted the muscles within those specific limbs. Erik grinned. What he wouldn't give to call those legs his.

Shaking his head in order to cease his personal thoughts, he moved next to the soprano as he joined in singing with the group. Glancing at the chorus members in approval, Erik felt fortunate that his opera had been cast strongly.

He snuck yet another glance in at the woman who hadn't left his thoughts since he had met her. Her eyes seemed to sparkle every time she sang, with a power and a passion he had never seen before in anyone else.

He smiled. She was perfect.

Within a few minutes, the cast was sent in different directions for costuming. An hour later the house was opened and members of the audience began to fill the seats. Another hour later, both Erik and Christine mentally reminded themselves to not bring their personal politics onto the stage as the curtain began to rise.

_Let the opera begin…_

…

Wiping off her makeup, Christine was startled to hear a knock on her door.

"Come in." Christine looked up to see the man of her very recent thoughts walk through the doorway. She smiled, amused at the first thought that had popped into her head. "I guess this makes us even then."

Erik smirked in response. "Ah, but Miss Daae, you barged into my room. I, on the other hand, politely knocked."

Rolling her eyes in jest, Christine fully turned around so that she could see more than just his reflection. She realized suddenly that for someone who was completely furious with this man, she seemed to have forgiven him almost straight away.

And she really didn't care.

"I hope that my acting skills in our scene of passion were sufficient for you?" Christine asked, adding on the thick layers of sarcasm to highlight her meaning.

Chuckling, Erik nodded in response. Somehow she could always see right through him. "Could've used a bit more," he mumbled, startled by the light caught in her eyes.

Christine turned back to her vanity mirror, intent on wiping off the remainder of her makeup so that she could finally wash her face, and change clothes. "I'm assuming you're here because you want to know my answer concerning this 'early supper' idea of yours?" At the sight of his nod, Christine gave him a pointed look. "Would it honestly make you feel better?"

Another nod.

The soprano sighed in defeat. After getting through the amount of fans today, she could use a drink. "Fine, I'm yours for the evening. Just make sure I'm home by eleven, otherwise Firmin and Andre will most likely place a bounty on your head."

…

They sat in Balthazar, one of the most expensive, yet casual dining experiences in SoHo. Of course Erik would choose this place. With Christine in her dress, and him in his black jeans, Christine had to admit: the choice of restaurant was actually… perfect.

Christine wondered when her partner for this meal would begin to explain everything that had occurred in the past twenty-four hours. Impatience and hunger just simply didn't mix, and they would only have a limited amount of time to speak honestly and in private, before their waiter returned with their orders.

"I just wanted to start off by saying how sorry I am for all of this occurring," Erik began. "However, your little friend didn't completely fill you in with all of the details."

Christine looked confused. "What do you mean?"

Erik took a deep breath; it was now or never. "After you left, I took the earliest red eye that I could back to the Organization in order to speak with Antoinette as soon as possible. While it was definitely not in my power to stop working with you, I do admit that at the time I was hoping I could find a loophole in being your second for this assignment. However, Antoinette was firm with her decision: I needed to stay with you and at the moment there was no one else who could be able to keep an eye out for you, while also doing my half of the job."

Christine became frustrated. "I already knew all of this. And why didn't you just not come back then? If you don't want to be here, don't be here. I won't go looking for you to try and get revenge. This was such a waste of time," Christine muttered before starting to get up. She refused to sit here so that this man could tell her everything that was wrong with her.

"Miss Daae, wait, please. Let me try and explain my process of thinking, at least." Rolling her eyes, Christine sighed once more, before sitting back down.

"I'm waiting."

"Did you ever think to give your newest partner a background check? Have you ever thought that you should give that a try?" Christine nodded.

"Normally I would, but Antoinette chewed me up enough about my issues with you, and so I assumed that I wouldn't be granted access to one."

"Well no matter how annoyed Antoinette is with you, she is never allowed to deny you your right to ask for one. If we all went about not giving each other background checks, then we wouldn't know each other's weaknesses and past. It's up to us to work as a team, and part of that involves making sure none of us go around the bend."

"Well," Christine began uncertainly, "Did you give me a background check?"

"No. Figured that you basically being Antoinette's second daughter would mean that she had been keeping a firm eye on you. Thankfully, I was right." Erik said, watching the brunette fidget. _What was she hiding?_

"Alright, well what do I need to know about you then? Obviously if you're mentioning those, then you're speaking about one of us."

"Correct. I am in this case talking about myself. I—"

"Here are your soups, enjoy!" The waiter seemed immune to the masked composer's deathly glare, as he sent a wink in the soprano's direction before walking back to the kitchen.

"Idiotic boy," Erik grumbled as he watched the young man move away from the table. He was not one to be messed with this evening.

"As I was saying: Antoinette was kind enough to point out the fact that, really, you are the only one who has worked with me in about five or so years," Erik began. "The last woman who worked with me was my contact, Luciana. She was a nice enough girl, probably close to your age. She was sweet and could manage me during almost any of my moods." Erik swallowed as he prepared himself to tell her the worst of it.

"After working together for a few months, we fell in love. Or as in love as anyone could be with me. Having been in the Organization for about seven or eight years before Luciana, I had planned after that assignment to marry Luciana, and retire at a young enough age where we could still live rather comfortably for the rest of our lives, and never have to work again. Except things have a way of never working out the way you want them to," Erik finished softly.

Christine watched him, eyes wide, waiting for him to finish. "What happened to Luciana?" Christine asked quietly, when the composer didn't say anything else.

"She died."

"My papa died too." Christine whispered in response. Reaching across the table to hold his hand in understanding. She knew what it felt like to love someone fiercely, and then to have him or her torn away from you at the perfect moment.

Erik sighed. It was no use hiding the truth from her. He had to tell her how he felt. "Christine, I wanted to ask Antoinette to remove me from the assignment. But not because of you, because of me…"

Christine stiffened and snatched her hand back. "I know what you mean. You're going to say, 'it's not you, it's me' next, right?"

Erik shook his head as he frantically tried to find the right words. _He was going to lose her! _"Christine, you don't understand. It's for your own—"

"Alright, we have a rack of lamb, cooked medium rare, and the tilapia with asparagus… Oh! Your soups are still untouched. My apologies! Would you like me to bring out warm—"

_Damn his timing_. Erik growled in frustration and his chair screeched against the floor as he stood up abruptly, and glared at the waiter and snapped. "What I _would_ like for you to do, _sir_, is to bugger off and let this lady and me have a _bloody conversation_!"

The dining room quieted as everyone turned to look at the eccentric composer. The waiter's face was pale, uncertain of what to do in this scenario—the manager had never trained him for problems like these. Christine was red with embarrassment at the amount of attention they were getting. Sooner or later someone was going to recognize them, and Firmin would have their head with any bad publicity.

"Actually, if we could just have our dinners to go, sir, that would be wonderful," Christine said, and flashed a flirtatious smile at the startled waiter, who thankfully recovered, gave a worried smile of his own and moved as quickly as he could with the two meals.

As if that had snapped things back into reality, the other diners turned around to their own tables as if nothing had happened. Giving her masked companion a pointed look, Christine waited a moment longer for the waiter to come back with their wrapped meals. Thanking him again, she pulled out one of Firmin's contact cards and gave it to him.

"Just call this number, and tell the man that _Cat_ gave you this card. Just tell him who you are, and what happened. Make sure you say 'thirty' and 'Mr. Destler's fault', and he'll take care of you, alright?" Eagerly, the waiter nodded, relieved—at least the other member of this party was kind. Telling her the customary 'have a nice evening', the poor waiter disappeared into the kitchen once more. Not that Christine blamed him.

Turning to the masked composer, Christine looked pointedly at the entrance of the noteworthy Balthazar, before glancing back at him. Erik understood immediately: Leave or die. Following the baritone outside, Christine moved over to the street in order to flag down a yellow cab.

"What are you, insane? Did you miss the course on 'How to act around civilians in order to _not blow your cover'_?" The soprano snapped. Erik winced—he knew that how he had reacted to the waiter was wrong, he just couldn't stop himself.

"Look, I'm sorry. I just became frustrated—I need to make you understand the truth about me."

A yellow cabbie's attention was caught by the soprano's hand, but as it halted in front of her, the brunette's attention was once more on the assassin before her.

"Well? What's the truth, then?"

"Lady, are you going to get in or not?" The cab driver snapped, annoyed that he hadn't gotten the passengers he had stopped for.

Christine turned around to the driver and gave him a pleasant smile. "Sir, if you could be patient for just a few moments? You're more than welcome to start the meter now, and I'll be happy to pay the standing fare amount as well."

Turning back toward Erik, her impatience came back at the sight of the man before her. "The truth?"

Erik ruffled his hair, his dark mask giving the impression that the man was worn out and tired. Better now than never.

"She died, Christine, because I killed her. _That's_ why no one else will work with me, and that's why I _need_ to be replaced by someone else. One of these days, I might just kill you."

Christine stared back at him unimpressed. "That was it? Get in the bloody cab, Mr. Destler. I still haven't eaten, and I'm rather grumpy at the moment." Turning away from the composer Christine climbed into the cab with their meals, giving the driver directions, as Erik stared at her for a moment before climbing in after her and closing the door.

"I don't understand," Erik said quietly. "Why is it that you are so calm and unfazed by everything I am? I'm a killer, a monster… " He motioned to the damaged side of his face. "I just don't get it." Christine turned to look at him coolly before giving her response.

"It doesn't matter what is shown on the outside—that isn't by choice, Mr. Destler. What _is_ a choice is the way you show others how to look past _that_ in order to see _who_ you are. I wasn't lying when I said that you were one of the most attractive men out there. While you might see yourself as one of the Organization's tools, I can see potential for other things from you as well. Take your own advice to heart, Mr. Destler: feel the good in the 'depths of your entire being—_that_ is where your true potential will lie'." Christine glanced outside as the cab slowed to a halt, noticing that they were outside of Antoinette's apartment building before getting out.

Christine's words hit him straight in the heart, as he stared after the woman had already left. _Feel the good_. Was there any good in his body? Is that what she needed?

"Hey! Are you going to sit here all day, or are you going to get out?" The driver snapped, itching to find new passengers—he _did_ have gas to pay for after all.

"Sorry," the composer mumbled, as he got out of the cab and entered the apartment building, all the while mulling everything over. So he would try to be pleasant and less cold. Less cocky, the face he had been showing to all of the public, and more… emotional? Understanding? Human? If that's what she needed, then he could try that.

He could.

Sighing, Erik gave the doorman a brusque thank you for calling an elevator for him, before he winced at the way his gratitude had sounded.

Act human? He was doomed.


	11. Chapter Ten

_Hello there, _

_So apparently I dreamed that I had submitted this chapter four days ago, but didn't actually submit it. My most humble apologies. I have no idea why I dreamt that I had. However it's probably a good thing that I forgot to upload this, because I read through this chapter, made some changes and actually allowed Erik to... Well, why am I ruining the chapter? Find out yourself. _

_Anyway, thank you to everyone who has been story/author alerting/favoriting. It's really kind of all of you. I hope you enjoy this next chapter of La Diva Assassina! _

_Happy reading!_

_Ever yours,_

**_Soprano in Shadow_**

* * *

><p>Furious with his own actions, Erik strode angrily into his room, ripping his mask off in disgust as he stood in front of the mirror. The furnishings of this particular bedroom were simple, following a monochrome feel, with the only main piece of furniture sticking out being the mirror itself. Backed onto a dark red metallic stand, the mirror was almost begging to be used in an admiring way.<p>

Of course, Erik's version of admiring himself didn't involve a mirror, it involved a mask.

How could Christine call _him_ good looking? Growling in frustration, Erik glared at his own reflection, wishing that it could hide the imperfections of his face.

Erik thought back to the soprano's earlier words. Be more human. Was that really the way to get a girl, particularly this girl? Erik sighed heavily, trying to plot ways to make up his previous actions that had embarrassed the brunette who lived down the hallway.

Why was it so much easier to kill off a client than to please a woman?

His stomach grumbled in protest to plotting on an empty stomach, and Erik's face brightened up considerably at the idea that came to his mind-what better way to win a girl's heart over than to cook her dinner? Finally having a plan, Erik began to set his ideas in motion. He would need the perfect backdrop, the right menu, flowers...

...

Looking over the list of clients she would have to handle over the next couple of months, Christine sighed in exasperation as she realized just how shallow these men were when she noticed the piles these clients were being sorted in:

_Prefers blondes_

_Prefers redheads_

_Prefers brunettes_

"Why can't men prefer women the way they look already?" Christine asked herself aloud, not knowing she had an audience. Hearing a quiet chuckle, Christine flinched in surprise as she looked up to see Erik leaning against her doorframe clearly amused. The brunette, however, was not.

"Aren't you just a little too amused at the moment after this afternoon's escapades?" Christine asked. Although she could never admit it, Christine was more annoyed about the fact that she hadn't notice him approaching, than what had occurred earlier that afternoon… but Erik definitely didn't need to know that.

"Well, milady," the baritone began with a short bow, "I have actually come to request your presence at dinner this evening. Will you accept?"

Christine was a little taken back in surprise at his actions. Instead of the hot-tempered composer she had seen this afternoon, a cool and collected man stood in place. Was he really working on changing?

She hesitated. Then decided. "I guess I could give you one last chance to prove that one mere waiter can survive a whole meal waiting on us," the soprano said, her interest piqued on what could go wrong tonight.

The composer shook his head. "Oh no, Miss Daae. We will be doing this my way. No waiters, no crowds, no noisy kitchens—no reasons to get annoyed. Just us."

Christine looked at him for a minute, a hint of blush reaching her cheeks, before coughing and shuffling through the folder in front of her as if to dismiss the man before her from her mind.

"Dinner. Tonight? Dinner sounds fine. Now, go away. I have things to do: clients to plot, and training to get done. Go away." Did Erik's ears deceive him, or was the woman's speech before him… flustered?

"Instead of practicing this afternoon, and getting all sweaty, how about a sparring session tomorrow morning with me? I know we could both use it. I have a friend here in New York who will allow us to use his dojo." Erik's offer was greeted with silence. A moment later Erik, feeling a little too conscious of the woman's shocked gaze and lack of words, turned and left the soprano's room.

But he was not to have the last word.

"You have _friends_?" Erik chuckled at Christine's outburst of astonishment, as he headed to the kitchen. He had a meal to prepare.

…

"_When all other options fail, Christine, this should always keep you confident and alive," Meg said, as she surveyed the brunette's form before her._

_Christine stared nervously, beads of sweat beginning to form at her hairline. This couldn't be happening. There was no way _this_ could be what her best friend was suggesting. _

"_Are you sure that… that men will like this? What if I don't… perform… Well, you know."_

_Meg shushed the words of protest coming out of the rose lips of her best friend. "Christine, have I ever led you astray?"_

"…_No?"_

"_And do you trust me?"_

_There was more hesitation answering this question. "…Yes?"_

"_Well, then stop worrying. No man could ask any less from you when you're like that." Meg giggled. "No man will also be able to resist you."_

_Christine paled at the blonde's words. "But, Meg! I don't want to _do _this! It's improper! What would Papa say if he saw me? He'd be… disappointed."_

"_Now, Christine, don't worry! If you follow all of my instructions, and do what I say, then your father would be prouder of the fact that you will be the weakness of all men. All you have to do is… just that."_

_Christine cringed at Meg's last words. This didn't feel right. None of this did. She felt…dirty._

"_But, Meg!"_

_The girl snapped. "Oh hush, you prude! Now do you want to live a long life?" The brunette nodded. "Find love and marry?" Again, the brunette nodded. "Have babies?" Christine blushed, but again nodded. "Then if you're ever in a position to do this, then you must. _Especially_ if your client is a man. Mama taught this to me last year, and it has seriously saved me in so many situations."_

"_Umm… Meg?"_

"_Hmm..?"_

"_If Antoinette taught you this, then how were you unconscious that one time when—"_

"_Oh shut up, Christine."_

Christine smiled fondly as she remembered her previous conversation with Meg, before staring at her reflection once more.

This was a time of grave seriousness, when everything boiled down to this one moment. She would have to not only use everything that her best friend taught her, but also all of her _other _feminine wiles in order to secure the situation. She would _not_ be trapped in the corner by a man. She was Christine Daae—a famous opera diva and a disciplined assassin.

If she wanted to stay alive, and not die from embarrassment, then she would have to use the two secret weapons that Meg had taught her about.

Her little black dress and makeup.

…

Knocking on his date's bedroom door, Erik almost felt as though he was back in high school. Except for the fact that he had been homeschooled his whole life. But he could definitely sympathize with any of those poor bastards who were struggling through a crush.

A crush. Was that what this was? Was it only a crush, or would this progress into something more? Knowing himself, Erik guessed the latter, although he wouldn't mind in the least bit. He was chained to the woman for two months, and who knew—maybe Fate would favor him this time around.

Erik's mouth went dry. His wandering thoughts were cut short by the sight that greeted him when Christine's door opened. She was classically beautiful.

He started from the top first. She had opted to leave her hair down and curling, which suited the composer just fine—he had always made fun of women who knotted their hair in an updo and filled it with jewels and other ostentatious…_things_. Her face was clear of makeup, save for her dark, glittering eyes and dark red lipstick. The straps of her black dress were edged with scalloped lace, and gave way to a modest yet sultry sweetheart neckline. The masked man also noted, and quite happily, that not only did her dress end at an appropriate length above her knees, but it also hugged her body quite deliciously, while still not being too tight. He had always hated women who wore tight fitting things that left nothing to imagination.

But he definitely did _not _hate what Christine was wearing. Definitely not.

Christine let out a soft laugh as she watched him ogle her choice of outfit. "I'm assuming I have not disappointed you in some way, _Don Juan_." Christine said teasingly, as she also took in the composer's eveningwear. Whoever had previously stated that menswear was not important, had obviously never seen this composer look so dapper.

The composer had chosen to wear his usual pair of black dress pants and a white button down dress shirt, topped off with a charcoal, five-button London vest that had scrolling embroidery on the front shoulders. The outfit was of course completed with his traditional black mask. In a word the composer, as eccentric as he may be, looked dashing.

The baritone's rich voice broke through her thoughts. "Well apparently I have met your approval as well, _Aminta_. However, dinner will grow cold, so we should probably take our leave." Offering his arm, Erik escorted Christine to the elevator where he promptly took them to the highest level of the complex, then led her up the stairs where the warm evening air and stars welcomed her. As he turned her around the corner, Christine's eyes widened at the sight that lay before her.

The area of the building's roof that surrounded the dining area was covered in peony blossoms, with four candelabras positioned artfully beside the table. The white cloth that covered the table was a stark contrast to the varying shades of flowers and the two silver-plated domes that hid their meals from view. Walking the brunette over to her chair, Erik pulled the metal garden seat out from under the table, and pushed it back in as the soprano sat down.

Smiling in thanks, Christine began to fidget almost at once. She had every reason to be nervous. This wasn't supposed to be a _date_ date, but it felt like one. But this was only for him to prove that he could change. To her—so it _was_ a date? But the change would be good for himself—so it _wasn't_ a date?

To put it simply, Christine was confused.

Maybe the food would give her a clue?

Walking around to the middle of the table, Erik reached for the bottle of champagne and poured them each a glass, before sitting down and giving a toast.

"To… being more human!" Erik declared as he lightly tapped his glass against Christine's. Smiling in response, Christine downed about half of her glass before setting it down—she would need that alcohol later on.

"So, what's for dinner?" Christine asked as she reached to uncover her own meal, only for Erik to hastily put a hand on top of hers. Both blushed at the touch and avoided eye contact—neither of them had touched the other in this… intimate of a way outside of rehearsals and performing. It was both unsettling and exciting.

"Not yet. You'll ruin the surprise. First champagne, then dinner," Erik said in response. With nothing else to say right then, they both stared at their laps in uncomfortable silence.

"So about the—"

"I'm sorry about—"

They both laughed awkwardly at their dueling attempts to make conversation.

"You first," Christine said, trying to be polite and letting Erik explain his own actions.

"No. You. I insist." Christine blushed at Erik's prodding—she was doing quite a bit of that this evening. This felt like a first date: when everything is awkward, and you're not sure if the next thing you say or do will either impress your date or cause them to cut the evening short.

"I was just going to say that maybe we should try and see if we can fine tune that scene you brought up before this afternoon's performance," Christine said softly, before taking another sip from her glass.

Erik looked a little ashamed at her words. "Actually, I was only suggesting that to pick on you a bit. I wanted to apologize about how I acted, both then and during our earlier restaurant adventure. I acted rashly."

"Oh…" Christine trailed off, as she tried once again to think of something else to say. That awkward silence was back again, she would have none of it ruin… this? What was _this_ anyway?

"So how quickly do you think we'll get bored from the clients we've been requested to terminate?" Christine asked, stabbing a topic at random, as she took another sip from her champagne flute, her legs still fidgeting below the table.

Erik chuckled. It was always business when it came down to the brunette, whether it be for the opera or an assassination. Perhaps that was why she was so fidgety—she really had no idea how to relax.

"Calm yourself, Christine. We have plenty of time this week to discuss those matters," Erik said, as he began to drink her appearance in.

Christine smiled timidly, and Erik mentally gave himself a pat on the back: he was the reason for her smile again.

"What's so amusing this time, Angel?"

"You rarely call me Christine," the soprano began. "I wish you call me by my name more often when—well, when we're not bickering. Only don't call me 'Angel', please. I would rather you call me 'Cat' like everyone else. I'm only known as an 'Angel' when I'm sent to kill."

Erik chuckled before giving his own explanation. "Ah, but the difference between me and your friends, _Angel_, is that you almost _did_ kill me. And so, my nickname for you gets to be special, because _we_ are a special case." Christine stared at him dubiously as she processed this information. He had cooked her dinner, brought up a bottle of champagne _and_ given her a nickname. This _had_ to be a date. _Right?_

"Right." Christine looked up alarmed. Had she said her last thought out loud?

"I'm sorry, what?"

Erik shrugged. "I said 'right' to your question. I'd like to _think_ this could be a date. But it's entirely your choice. Would you like this to be a date, or would that just scare you off?" Beneath his mask, Christine could see his eyes hopefully waiting for an affirmative answer.

Christine coughed awkwardly as she drank yet another hurried sip of champagne, legs still fidgeting. She would need to change tactics. Wait, no. Topics. "So we have about four and a half more days of rest before we start to bring the clients in. Do you think we should work on the same nights, or every other night? I mean the main thing I'm worried about here is the paparazzi, and how we're going to be able to slip out unnoticed. What do you think?"

Erik's pleasant smile began to melt and settle into a more serious look. He wasn't sure if he was unhappy about how she had switched topics, or if it was because the topic she had hurriedly chosen concerned their clients. Again. Either way, the topic of dating made her nervous, and Erik realized that he would have to bring this up another time. His mood soured as Erik realized that once again, he had probably ruined the evening.

"You know what, let's eat." Christine stared at the composer's lips as he spoke. _That was it?_ No more conversation? Maybe she had made the wrong choice in changing topics.

"Mr. Destler, I'm—" Her apology was interrupted by Erik's fist hitting the table.

"Just eat." His cold words were clipped and business-like, as he lifted off the silver cover for his food.

Christine found herself being on the defensive as she began lifting up her own lid. Only to find_… a bowl of macaroni and cheese?_ She couldn't help but begin to laugh at the humor in all of this.

"Is everything ok?" Erik was worried that perhaps the bubbly drink had gone to the soprano's head. Could she not handle her liquor?

"You've been talking to Firmin, haven't you? He told you that my comfort food choice was macaroni and cheese, didn't he?" Erik nodded. "My _papa_ used to make it for me whenever I had a horrid day at training, or if Antoinette scolded me more than usual," Christine explained quietly, no longer fidgeting.

Erik began to smile softly as Christine began to open up once again and talk more about her father. Apparently she didn't mind if he asked questions, and the duo began to talk comfortably once more while enjoying their macaroni and cheese dinners. Maybe the evening could end on a happier note.

"So, _Erik_, what about your home life?" Christine realized that 'home' was a sore topic, when the composer's face began to darken. "If you don't want to speak about it, you don't have to. We could talk about something else."

Erik began to calm himself when he saw that the brunette was trying to harmlessly get to know who he really was.

"If you dance with me, then I'll tell you whatever you want to know," Erik said, bargaining for a chance to once more hold the soprano in his arms.

Giggling a little, Christine took the last sip of her champagne before nodding and getting up from her seat. Escorting her past the peonies, Erik twirled her around towards the corner of the building in order to have a more enjoyable view as their background. Drawing her back in close, Erik settled his hand in her own, while placing his other hand at a respectable spot on her back. And then he began to move.

Christine giggled as he twirled her away from his warmth once again. "We don't have any music, silly."

Erik paused and he brought her back to him. "Well if you stay close to me, _Angel_, then I'll hum something for us to dance to."

"Only if you remove your mask." Her request stilled him, until seeing her hand move to remove it herself, Erik began to frantically back away. _Not again. Not like Luciana. _

"No. I can't allow that. Not _here_." Erk spat out hastily, keeping his distance from the soprano. What was it about women and their _damn_ curiosity!

Christine paused. "If you prefer to leave your mask on, then you may. But I'm sorry, Erik. I refuse to date anyone who hides behind a mask. I would only be knowing part of you, and, for me, that isn't enough," Christine said quietly. "Let's just continue dancing, I won't bring it up again, until you do."

Erik swallowed, before reaching for her hand hesitantly. When she didn't try any other sudden movements, Erik drew her back towards him.

"What would you like me to hum, _Angel_?" Erik murmured quietly, pushing away the events that had occurred moments ago.

Christine thought for a moment. "Your aria at the end of the second act? The one I haven't actually been able to hear?" Chuckling, Erik nodded again, as he drew her in closer, the lower half of his face right by her ear.

Christine could feel his warm breath hit her ear as his voice, rich with feeling, began to hum the melody of his aria. Laying her head against his shoulder, Christine savored the feeling of being held so carefully like this. But she couldn't fall for him—not if he wouldn't remove his mask.

But tonight she wouldn't think about all of that. She was only a woman dancing with a man. He was only a man humming in her ear. The rest of it didn't matter.

Letting herself go, Christine forgot about everything else she needed to worry about, a wave of calm washed over her and she would never even remember when she would fall asleep against his shoulder.

Erik smiled against her cheek, when he felt her weight begin to rely more and more on his supporting arms. She had fallen asleep, and Erik couldn't think of anything more wonderful than this. Bending down a bit, Erik hooked her legs over his arm and began to carry her back to their apartment bridal style. _Their apartment_. Erik chuckled quietly at the thought. He might as well dream.

The minutes ticked by quickly and Erik slowly approached Christine's room, not wanting this moment her so cherished to end. Placing her into her bed, Erik tucked the sleeping woman in, running his hand against her hair, in order to tuck it back behind her ear. He would have turned to leave the woman in slumber, if had not been for the dark rose petal color of her lips. Erik hesitated for a moment, running his hand through his hair, before finally bending down and pressing her lips against his own. Standing back up and reaching the soprano's door, Erik looked back once more, before closing the door behind him, as the tired baritone trudged back to his own room.

"Goodnight, _mon ange._"

* * *

><p>Updated AN, 6/27/2012:

Hello there,

Unfortunately Spencer (my Macbook Pro) decided to take a little shower-only a little bit of water went through the keyboard. I've waited 30 hours, but it's still not responding, so I'm planning on going to the Soho Apple Store today. Unfortunately, about 2/3 of the newest chapter was being worked on, and so unfortunately I won't be able to update until: a) I get poor Spencer looked at and (hopefully) fixed, or b) I can get the docs from the hard drive transferred onto my boyfriend's laptop... Hopefully one of these options can occur really soon. So sorry for the delay!

Ever yours,

**Soprano in Shadow**


	12. Chapter Eleven

_Hello there!_

_So for those of you who read Chapter 10 earlier, you most likely have not heard my sad news: my beloved Mac decided to go swimming the other day and is completely dead. Fortunately I was able to rescue the hard drive, and I've transferred everything onto my boyfriend's laptop. Anyway, here's some additional information about the fanfic. _

_As you all might have noticed, the rating for _La Diva Assassina_ has changed from T to M. This is because of not only coarse language most likely showing up sooner or later, but also because of Christine's past. I haven't decided on whether or not I will be adding some lemons to this fanfic, however if I do decide to go forward with that route, then I'll be sure to let all of you know first. My apologies for anyone who only reads T-rated fics, however if you have any concerns or questions, feel free to contact me via PM. Happy reading, darlings!_

_Ever yours, _

**_Soprano in Shadow_**

* * *

><p>What transpired between the two assassins during the following week could be seen as an uneasy truce. Both saw the other through an unsettled gaze, as they wrapped up the opening week of Erik's operatic triumph.<p>

However, neither of them could see how much of a triumph they were as a pair, being too busy stepping around the other. When one would cross the path of the other, the latter would make the quickest of excuses and leave the vicinity. Flushed cheeks and guilty exchanges of looks could be seen within the apartment, enough to drive any pair of men crazy. How would the assassins be able to work with each other if they couldn't stand to be in the same room?

Erik was mortified. He didn't know what had been going through his mind when he had kissed the sleeping brunette, however he was feeling guiltier with every entrance and every scrap of physical contact he was forced to make with the soprano on stage. He felt as though he didn't even deserve to be in the woman's presence.

And so he avoided her.

Christine was confused. She wasn't sure why, but upon waking up the morning after the dinner, Christine felt as though she had missed something. And she had dreamed about the eccentric composer—horrid and naughty dreams that her _papa_ certainly wouldn't have been proud of. She dreamt that he had kissed her. Over and over again, that same dream had repeated. Christine felt childish and embarrassed: no other man had _ever_ dulled her senses so quickly like this…except for one other. _Him_.

And so she avoided him.

It wasn't the fact that she was naïve or an innocent—this career path didn't really leave much of that intact, no matter how long you were part of the Organization. Everyone within its employment had to make sacrifices for the good of mankind. Even Christine did. But no matter what clients she had been given, and no matter what sacrifices she had to make, whether or not it involved her body, the one thing she held sacred were her lips. She would never allow a mere client to sully them with their own, and in turn, Christine saw them as pure and untouched. Until her first kiss with the composer on opening night. On stage. _Did that even count?_

She had decided not to meet Erik for an early morning spar the next day, instead opting to hide in her room for most of the day, deciding that heaping immaturity over the situation was the best route to go. He had decided that she must have figured out why he was avoiding her, his sneak-in kiss, and so he decided to remain silent and guilty until she confronted him.

Andre and Firmin were at their wits' ends. Andre would rather have the duo at each other's necks in anger, instead of this awkward dance of avoidance. Firmin moaned that the tension would cause his hair to get split ends from all of the stress, and spent most of his time that week immersed in bubble baths as he made phone calls to various people of interest while pruning.

Until, finally, the opening week was over. Normally, operas would never even have a full opening week in one opera house—with a few operas opening per week. However, Erik Destler had the money to finance that sort of project, and that money was always returned to him and doubled or tripled with the help of a full house for every curtain. _Don Juan Triumphant_ would now only be performed two evenings and one matinee a week, with some of the classic operas performed between those nights for the remainder of the contracted two months.

"Enough!" Andre roared at the composer who had just slunk out of the kitchen and into the library, after making contact with a disheveled but awake Christine. Apparently the soprano needed to sleep in until early that afternoon, although the composer couldn't blame her one bit. The evening before had been their last on stage together for a few days, and the soprano had been looking more and more exhausted after each showing.

"Why can't you just act like a bloody man and _talk to her_? This silence is childish. Neither of you has spoken to the other for the last four days, and it is _exhausting_—Firmin has practically become a raisin spending his hours in the tub, and it's just not attractive."

"No." Despite the composer's determination to try and find a book, Andre's persisting voice was nagging at his conscience.

"_But Erik_," Andre whined (and Andre _never_ whined) switching tactics, "Christine always looks so sad. And I don't know what to do about it. She hasn't sparred at all or spoken with me about killing anyone. All she does is sit around, eat and meditate. I want my little energetic Cat back."

"No."

"_But Erik."_ Andre stretched Erik's name out even longer this time, knowing that the composer despised childish antics, despite his own current attitude this past week.

"_Dammit!_" Erik shoved the book back into its place on the shelf and marched back into the kitchen. There he saw the young soprano meditating…on the kitchen counter.

"_You_!" the composer thundered at the brunette, causing her eyes to snap open. "You will change into some sparring clothes, grab your _damn_ blades and come with me. _Immediately_." His voice allowed for no argument. "We are going to bloody spar, and sort this…this _thing_ out between us. Andre is right. This is no way for us to act, when we're not only supposed to be in love on stage, but also outside in public. Unless you're sabotaging this assignment?"

The challenge in the baritone's voice snapped the brunette back from her earlier sullen mood, the fire in her spirit catching flame once more as she stood up on the kitchen counter, in order to tower over the angered composer. "Fine," she snapped. "Just don't blame me if I land you in the hospital, you egotistical, self-centered, arrogant… _pig!_" With that, the petite soprano jumped off the counter, stomped to her room, and slammed the door shut, only for her to appear a few minutes later in street clothes, a backpack and the same black trench coat Erik had seen her wearing the night they had first met.

Without another word, the composer strode to the living room and out the door with the soprano, muttering different ways to kill the composer under her breath, hot on his heels.

The door slamming shut behind the dueling pair, Andre smiled as he chuckled to himself. _Those kids are going to have a blast._

…

Still muttering under her breath, Christine shrugged her street clothes off before changing into a more flexible outfit: spandex yoga shorts and a sports bra. Not only was she winning this spar, but she was going to make that _damn arrogant composer_ regret that he hadn't taken his mask off the night before. _And what was up with how he had been acting all week?_ The minute they were offstage, the baritone was gone, and his door was securely locked. Barely there, he was almost like a phantom shrouded in mystery. No communication. No explanation. Nothing.

"Why is it that I always pick the insecure bastards?" Christine asked herself, twisting her hair into a loose bun that would keep her hair out of the way. Who knew that within almost two weeks, she would have gone from admiring this composer from afar, to despising him, to…falling for him? _Was_ she falling for him? Christine honestly wasn't sure. Yes, there were sparks, but there was no tinder to, so to speak, catch and nurture those sparks. And that's where Christine was confused. But she would get her answers—she wasn't one of the Organization's top assassins for nothing.

Donning a pair of lightweight grip gloves, Christine walked out of the locker room holding her _daisho_ by the hilts, and was met with the sight of the silent baritone stretching. Clothed only in lightweight sweatpants. Christine swallowed—with no one else in the dojo, Christine could see this spar going in two completely different directions. Pasting on a smile that would smolder the heart of any man,

Erik's eyes widened for only a moment as he watched the fiery hellcat saunter out of the women's locker room, wearing barely anything. Pro: it would be a lot easier to nick her with his blade. Con: that outfit was distracting, and she knew it.

"So, Erik," the soprano purred, bringing out as much of her assassin technique as she dared, with her specialty being seduction assassinations. Despite her father's last wishes, Christine had decided that she wanted the most dangerous of clients. If she wouldn't deal with them, who would?

"Christine." Erik's tone was both distant and abrupt, as he continued stretching, letting her know that he meant business and wouldn't be distracted easily. Perfect. He might have hidden it quickly, but Christine had caught a glimpse of that wide-eyed look.

She crouched down to his level, playing with one blade's hilt, offering a smirk. "So how would you like to play this little game, hmm?"

_So this is how she wanted to play?_ The baritone stood from his stretching, katana in hand."This spar will not end until one of us admits defeat."

If Christine hadn't been so determined to maintain her façade, she would have doubled over and laughed at how serious the man before her was acting. They were as opposite as day and night: he the stoic composer, she the seductive soprano. If they weren't so keen on fighting each other all of the time, they could have become Antoinette's deathly duo.

They could still become that.

Blades clashed as Christine had rushed forward in order to attack, not even bothering to respond to Erik. The blade of the composer's katana barely fended off the blow. _Focus, dammit_, Erik silently gnashed to himself.

Her feet dancing away from the attack, Christine smirked again as she crouched back into a defense pose. Angered by being caught unawares, Erik rushed forward to attack, only to be easily blocked off by Christine's longer blade. Twisting inward towards the composer, Christine thrust her shorter blade in, hoping to at least scratch him along the stomach. However, catching her distracted for a moment, Erik hooked his foot behind her ankle causing the brunette to trip.

Flipping herself back up, Christine barely had time to stabilize her own center of gravity before Erik began attacking her with intensity, forcing Christine to stay in a defensive position.

Finally, she was able to slip her own longer blade in for an attack. Their blades crossed above them, resulting in their bodies almost pressing together. Erik hissed in aggravation, as he pushed away from their pose. _That was too close for comfort._

"Do not assume you can beat me so easily! I am not known as one of the deadliest assassins for nothing, Miss Daae."

Laughing for a moment, Christine glanced at his rose tattoo. Did he still not know the secret behind these roses?

"Obviously you were trained by Antoinette, but did you by any chance hear of the name 'Black Jackal'?" Christine asked, while watching him as a panther eyes its prey.

Erik stared at her for a moment before letting his katana drop by his leg, closing his eyes and reciting the information of the legendary killer by memory. "Black Jackal: Widower. Known for his quick footwork, and given the reputation of being the best assassin at the Organization. He was also known for avoiding Organization students who begged him to be their trainer, although he was known to accept only one student while he was still active. Now, his location is unknown, as he retired from the Organization early on. But what does that matter?" Erik demanded to know.

"Did Antoinette teach you nothing about the roses? They tell a lot about us, but only if you know how to read them properly. A dark red tattoo means that you were trained by Antoinette herself—only several people have had that honor. When an assassin is allowed to train others, he or she chooses their own color of the rose. That color rose is then tattooed on the students you accept, upon their first successful kill. And then the cycle continues."

Erik huffed. He didn't come here to talk about the Organization with the soprano—he had come here to spar and sort out their feelings.

"And that matters, because?"

"Because, I am the only one you will ever see who wears the dark silver tattoo. Ever."

Erik looked at her confused. Was there a purpose to this?

"Are you that dimwitted? The 'Black Jackal' only accepted one student. I am the only one who carries the dark silver rose."

"_You_ are the 'Black Jackal's' only student? He wasted his efforts on you?" Perhaps Erik shouldn't have said that, but he was hurt. While he may not have admitted it out loud, Erik had been one of those who had begged the Jackal to train him.

"_Wasted his efforts?_ Are you kidding?" In her anger, Christine sent her shorter blade into the air, as the blade landed right before his feet. "He was my father, you inconsiderate, arrogant... _jerk_! Of course he would train me above everyone else."

Erik lifted his blade up and studied the soprano before him intently. It was never recorded officially that the Black Jackal had chosen a student, although in this situation, he doubted that Antoinette would have a problem with her top assassin bending the rules.

"For someone who studied under the legendary Black Jackal, I'm surprised at your lack of… skills." Erik said. He smirked, knowing that a statement like that would most likely get a rise out of the petite brunette.

To his surprise, Christine only smiled as she brought her remaining blade up to a defensive position with one hand, and beckoned him on with the other. Encouraged by her silent composure, Erik rushed forward to spring an attack, energized by his earlier frustrations with the woman.

He should have guessed that she had been holding back.

Using his forward momentum to her advantage, Christine pivoted on her leading foot, and began a flurry of attacks aimed at the back of her pursuer. The whistling sound of her blade, left the composer in shock. _Had she been holding back since Day One?_

A sharp cut against his back brought Erik back to the dojo's space, as a line of blood began to appear along the back of his torso. Looking back at the brunette's victorious smirk, Erik realized that while he may have beaten the soprano before, Christine was indeed a worthy challenger.

Flipping away from the petite brunette, Erik chose to distance himself in order to study Christine further. She _must_ have some weakness somewhere.

Still smirking at his incredulous and cautious behavior, Christine took the time to pick up her shorter blade, before once more settling into yet another pose, waiting again for Erik to make his move.

However this time, Erik was careful. He approached her cautiously, choosing this time to plan out his attacks instead of relying on his anger. He didn't quite understand why he was reacting this easily—normally his attacks were calculated, cold and precise. So what made this sparring session so different? Was it because of who his opponent was? Or was it because he was getting rusty from his lack of practice in New York?

Moving into a pose himself, Erik stood there for a moment, then did the one thing that Christine least expected. He stood back up, gave a deep bow, and walked off to the men's locker rooms, leaving the soprano watching him dumbfounded.

…

Fastening a pair of dark, washed jeans, Erik hummed an excerpt from his opera as he wiped on his deodorant. All that remained was to wait for his wound to dry so that he wouldn't have to go back to the apartment in a ruined shirt.

With a bang, Erik's front was slammed into the locker cubbies adjacent to his own, his hands held against the metal frame. The cold tip of a blade was barely brushed against his back, as it trailed up, stopping at the back of his neck.

Forcing himself to remain calm, Erik had three priorities: identify the attacker, break free and then disarm.

"I don't expect most men to walk away from a spar, just because they're fighting against a girl, Mr. Destler, least of all you. I actually thought you would give me a fair challenge. Instead? You choose to just walk away. Am I not challenge enough? Am I not worthy? Is that what this is about?" Christine's voice had traded in its normal soft and sultry tone in exchange for a steely one. Obviously, she was angry. "I want answers, Mr. Destler. I want to know why you've been avoiding me. I want to know why you've barely spoken to me, and what this distance is between us. If you have a problem with me, then I'd rather you come out and be frank about it."

Erik sighed at the first hint of her voice. He had upset her again—the one thing he had tried to avoid.

"Christine, this had nothing to do with your worthiness, in fact, just the opposite. I believe that, at the moment, I have met my match: You. I said that this spar would end when one of us admitted defeat, and I did. As for the reason why I have been avoiding you, I would prefer if we could actually sit down and put everything out in the open. However, I believe now is not the time. We _do_ have our assignments while we're here in New York, and we might as well start now. Now please, Christine, let me go." The composer's tone was honest and direct, and the brunette knew that what he had said was true.

Feeling the lack of blade against his neck, Erik turned around to find the soprano gone. Instead, Christine had left a short stack of notecards, each with an address. Addresses that he had seen on some of his clients' files.

He understood her message instantly. They had work to do.


	13. Chapter Twelve

_Hello there, _

_My apologies for this chapter taking its time... I've been interning, sleeping and, ultimately, procrastinating. I really hope that all of you enjoy this chapter- while I did procrastinate, I did put a lot of passion and depth into this chapter. _

_I also wanted to say that this chapter marks the beginning of the "M" rating. For those who were reading this when it was still rated T, and are continuing to read this, I just wanted to say thank you for all of your support. Also, this chapter is rated for some light lemon situations:** I would advise you "T" readers to avoid anything in italics until you see a set of rather famous words. You can read the standard text in between italicized moments, but you have been fairly warned.** _

_**Lastly, don't forget to review! Review, review, review!** It makes me happy when I read what all of you have to say about what I've written, whether it's good or bad. _

_Have a wonderful remainder of the week, darlings!_

_Ever yours, _

**_Soprano in Shadow_**

* * *

><p>Christine lounged against the leather seat smiling coyly at the man seated next to her, as the limo made its way up Broadway from Chelsea. Her dark curls had been replaced with fiery flat ironed, and already, the soprano was hoping that this encounter wouldn't last too long. The man sitting next to her was middle-aged, athletic… and also the main man behind the recent attacks on Manhattan's MTA system. He was also apparently quite attracted to redheads and professional cheerleaders—both in the forefront of her current disguise.<p>

Apparently he wasn't as attracted to anything, from what Christine could see, other than his beloved Blackberry. Ever since she had conveniently bumped into him at his local lunching spot- a family owned French bakery- he had done nothing except talk business the whole limo ride uptown on the West side of Central Park. They should be approaching his large apartment in approximately two minutes, the normally brunette woman guessed. Deciding that this… situation needed to be given a little bit of heat, Christine began to watch the taxi dotted street while allowing her hand to creep up onto the salt-and-pepper-haired man's leg, stopping mid-thigh. His response into the phone was cut short when he turned to look at her for a moment (as if she had just magically dropped from the sky and landed on the leather seat), before squeezing her hand in response and continuing his conversation.

So much for that trick.

Christine closed her eyes, beginning to think through several initial plans, before going through each of these and forming a backup plan for every scenario she could predict at that moment. The secret to the assassin's success in this business was not being beautiful, but being a strategist. She saw herself as the type of woman who could make any man believe that he held power over her, when in reality she could pull any of the strings that came attached.

Men were her playthings. Not in a sexual way by choice, but they were easy to control once a woman discovered how to make them sing. And while it may have been the assassin talking right at that moment, Christine had to admit that this was the way she preferred men. She _wanted_ to be in control. Otherwise, a man could easily wreak havoc and cause more damage than any woman ever could. She may have been jaded, but Christine also had the reasons and the experience to be so. No man could ever be trusted, and so she would rather play with their hearts than give them hers.

The image of a certain masked man popped in her mind, and the brunette huffed in annoyance, causing the businessman to look at her questioningly. Smiling in the way that could make her seem like a placated cow, Christine waited for the businessman to continue his conversation, before allowing her mind to delve into that train of thought. Erik was as uncontrollable as he was reliable, and while he had run away from his duties once before, Christine had to grudgingly admit that he had returned. Did that mean he could be trusted?

Erik had mentioned that he wanted to speak with her once they had taken care of their separate responsibilities, but was that because he honestly wished to speak with her, or because she had held him at knifepoint? The businessman next to her coughed for a moment, before resuming his conversation once more.

The businessman.

In all honesty, Christine had completely forgotten her client's name, something that she had never managed to do before—she blamed Erik for that. The limo pulled to a halt alongside an apartment complex complete with a doorman. Christine wondered if in the time it took the driver to step out of the vehicle himself and open the door, she could shove the Blackberry down the businessman's throat. The soprano could tell already that her patience was wearing thin—this would have to be a quickie.

The driver opened the door allowing the now redhead to step out onto the ever bustling sidewalk with the businessman close behind. Pretending to be unsure of where to go, Christine moved to the side, in order to allow the businessman a chance to lead the way. Following him into the building, Christine wasn't the least surprised to discover that the building itself was pre-war, a feature that a man like him could easily afford. The man's constant talk of price negotiation was causing the redhead to curl her hand into a fist, as the elevator slowly took its time moving upward to the twenty-third floor. Craving to punch the man and then stomp on the mobile until it crumbled to pieces, Christine opted to brush off invisible dust from her revealing little white dress—yet another outfit styled by Andre. The elevator proclaimed its arrival with a short ding, and the pair reached the door of the sole apartment on the floor: his. At least the assassin wouldn't have to deal with any nosy neighbors.

Finally, the businessman ended his phone call, once Christine had made herself comfortable on the grey couch. The apartment had been decorated tastefully, albeit a bit too minimalist for the soprano's colorful tastes. Lacking the warmth normally found in other professionally decorated apartments across the city, Christine could automatically tell that this apartment was rarely used for entertaining…at least in the "social, clothes kept on at all points of the event" sort of entertaining.

"So, you're a Dallas cheerleader, hmm?" The businessman asked smugly, and already Christine knew two things: the man was originally from Brooklyn by the sound of his accent, and he really didn't know how to multitask.

Fluttering her eyelashes, Christine put on her best Texan drawl as she stood up and closed the short amount of distance between them. "That's raht, sugah. But Ah just wish that y'all could meet mah friends back home. We c'ud have so much fun," she said pouting, while running her fingers across his suit.

Looking decidedly bored at her attempts to seduce him, the businessman stepped away from Christine for a moment, and motioned to a darkened hallway. "Go and find the bedroom. I want you ready by the time I get there," the impatient man snapped, before heading over to his bar and pouring himself a glass of some vile liquid.

Christine added in some extra sway to her hips, knowing that the man was admiring her from behind, as she walked through the hallway, until she finally located what looked like the master bedroom. Slipping out from underneath the dress, Christine spent a moment adjusting her matching mint colored lingerie, and the vial of poison that she kept hidden within her obnoxiously pushed-up bra, before wandering about his bedroom. Noticing a doorway open, Christine discovered the businessman's bathroom. Turning the light on, Christine walked over to the mirror and pulled out the vial of poison. She would have to act fast if she wanted to get this over with. Unscrewing the top of the vial, Christine poured a small amount onto a few fingers, before dabbing it on the sides of her neck, and in the valley between her breasts, before deciding to stop there. The poison needed to be fed to him orally, and from the looks of him, Christine doubted that this man would go any lower than her belly button. Returning back to the bedroom, Christine looked around once more, trying to find some personal object that could help her remember the businessman's damn name. Spying an envelope lying on his dresser, Christine skimmed the front of it for a name. Martin.

How…utterly boring.

The sound of a man clearing his throat caused Christine to turn around and face the busi- no, Martin, and offer him a sultry smile before making her way over to the bed.

"So, Mahtin, what are y'all doin' all the way over ther'?" Christine asked, dropping her voice down a pitch in the hopes that the businessman would be encouraged.

…

The woman fell from Erik's arms—her mouth fixed in a silent "Oh" and a bullet hole right between her frozen shocked eyes—and landed on the bed with a soft "fwoosh". Erik smirked as he began to get up from his place on the bed, and proceeded to look for his clothes. Finding all but his boxers, the composer scowled at the inconvenience of this whole assignment: he was not one to ever walk in public while going commando. Erik had too much pride for that. Instead, the masked man began to crawl on the floor, his hand reaching underneath the bed. Feeling cloth material on the carpet, Erik hurriedly pulled them out, only to discover a lace thong, belonging to the now late extortionist, instead of his dark blue boxers.

Huffing in annoyance, Erik opened the briefcase that lay beside the bed, and tossed it in—it was probably wise to not leave any sort of evidence lying about. Moving the thong to the side, Erik stared wistfully at his black mask, already feeling naked enough as it was. It didn't matter that he was already unclothed—without the safety of his black mask, Erik didn't feel like the arrogant composer who had taken the operatic world with a single opera. It didn't matter that he had a flesh toned mask on his face in order to hide the monstrosity. That mask always made him feel uncomfortable, as though he were looking in a mirror, but seeing another man instead of his reflection. Either way, the baritone would have to wait until he was clear of the hotel before switching masks, in order to not be recognized.

This was all Antoinette's fault. Erik cursed the older woman, as he finally found the missing boxers that had been tossed unceremoniously on top of a lamp shade. So what if she was right about Erik's mask being a dead giveaway? Although, according to the dead woman before him, he was one of the handsomest men she had ever seen.

_Practically purring, the woman licked her lips as she circled an unclothed Erik in order to gain a better view. "I have never seen such physique on a man before! Perhaps after today, we could see each other more…regularly, hmm?"_

"_Whatever you desire, ma'am," the assassin responded smoothly, his rich voice sending tingles up the woman's spine, all the while glaring at the briefcase that had accompanied his assignment. If only he could distract the woman in order to grab his gun. This woman, Melinda Beaufort, was well known for extorting a large sum of money from the government—so large, that the Oval Office had called the Organization, instead of its own men. Like her appetite for money, this woman's hunger for men was insatiable, and she was also known for funding quite a few pleasure businesses. Erik knew why Antoinette refused to replace him on this long term assignment: his methods were effortless, quick and clean. _

"_Well, why don't you show me what you can do, and if I'm impressed, then I'm sure you'll be justly rewarded by me. I'll give you a moment to… gather your thoughts, shall I?" the blonde asked, as she looked pointedly at what hung between the baritone's legs. _

After that most awkward moment, she had soon died, not realizing that the one moment she had given him had been her destruction. Smirking at the memory, Erik began to put on the rest of his clothes. This was why he was such a useful tool to the Organization—he didn't care how he killed, or who. All that mattered to him was that his life and reputation as a composer was never tarnished.

…

Christine hissed in appreciation at the harsh spray from the showerhead. Leaning against the glass door, the brunette was enjoying the hot water, as it washed out the red dye from her hair. It was good to be a brunette again. Not that Christine was abnormally vain—she just enjoyed being her own natural self, instead of changing how she looked to impress others.

She always needed a scalding hot shower after dealing with a client. It helped her believe that she could somehow cleanse herself and wash away the emotional blood that came with the job; while she may be doing good in the world by ending the life of someone bad, killing was still killing. And too much of it could cause even the nicest of people to go mad from the guilt and the nightmares.

Which is why Christine sang. She sang to forget about what she was trained to do, and she sang to help forget the many faces of those she had bled.

Closing her eyes, she had but a moment of peace before flashes of this afternoon came to haunt her, the face of the man she had killed rushing towards her, the skin rotted away in seconds to reveal the skull and tissue beneath.

Letting out a short scream, Christine opened her eyes as she collapsed on the shower tiles, her body scrunched up in a fetal position. Panting heavily, she scrunched her eyes shut once more. Give or take a few minutes, and the nightmare would be over. This always happened after every client. So locked away within her mind was Christine, that she didn't even bother to hear the scuffle outside of her bathroom door.

…

_Christine._

Erik sat up the instant he heard a scream, albeit short, before following his instincts and rushing to where the sound had come from. He didn't realize that he had forced himself into the soprano's bedroom, or that he was about to break down the bathroom door. What he did realize was that his subconscious was responding in a way that it never had before. For once it wanted to help someone.

"Mr. Destler!" Andre exclaimed, as he and Firmin appeared at Christine's doorway. They too had heard the scream, although they were less concerned for her, and more for the masked assassin.

Feeling helpless, Erik once more tried to force the door handle, but to no avail.

"She's in trouble! We must…must help her!" Erik said frantically, almost clawing at the door.

"Mr. Destler, you need to let her be. She locked the door for a reason."

"No! Christine! Cannot lose… must… help…" Neither man could understand Erik's broken phrases.

This time Firmin tried his luck. "Erik, Christine always does this. This happens after every client. You _need_ to let her be."

Slowly, Erik regained his senses as he finally listened to what the two older men were saying.

"Let her be, Erik."

But there had to be some way that he could help her.

And so he closed his eyes and sang.

…

Try as she might, Christine knew that she would have to live through the experience once more, but instead of the actual ending, the nightmare would transform into something more ghoulish.

"_Do you like those?" Martin asked her, his expression turning dark with hunger, watching from above as Christine could only look back helplessly. The businessman had never said anything about bondage!_

_Hiding her fear, the redhead only smirked. "Ah'm up for anythin' that's fun, darlin'!" Internally, she groaned—why was it that she always ended up with the odd ones? Here she was thinking this would be a quick kill, when in reality this was taking much longer than expected. He hadn't even tried to touch her body, only admiring the view as she was tied up in leather bondage cuffs. She needed to get out of this demoralizing position, and find a way to gain control of situation. _

_Offering a cold and sinister smile in response, Martin turned towards his dresser, only to return with his glass of whiskey as he took a sip admiring his handiwork._

_His words were drowned out, as his form twisted and turned until it became the form of another man entirely. _Him_. The demon that appeared and turned every dream she had ever held dear into ash, blood and tears. The man she had given her heart to, only for it to be crushed into piece from being stabbed in the back. _

_The man walked over, chuckled coldly, and hissed into her ear, "Now, Christine, didn't I teach you to never let someone else take advantage of your weaknesses?" The next thing she knew he was forcing his lips onto her own, as he crawled on top of her body. Trying to fight against the taste of whiskey on his breath, Christine bit his lip hard, only for him to offer a cold smirk before sending a trail of kisses down from her jaw line to the area between her breasts, as she cried out, begging him to stop…_

Christine screamed again, gripping her head in her hands as she begged out loud to whatever God was out there listening—begging for this nightmare to end. No matter if it was a man or a woman; their form would always change halfway through and change into _him_.

Tears flowed from her eyes as she shuddered, trying to block out the vision that had come to her. He was dead. He _had_ to be dead—no one could have survived that fire all of those years ago.

Minutes later, as her sniffling began to subside, Christine could dimly hear the sound of a man singing, slowly soothing her broken soul.

"… _truth isn't what you want to see.  
>In the dark it is easy to pretend<br>that the truth is what it ought to be."_

Barely realizing what she was doing, Christine stepped out of the shower, not realizing that water was still pouring from the showerhead, and also raining down onto the bathroom floor. Entranced by the voice that had broken her mind's curse of a nightmare, Christine moved forward slowly, not really realizing what she was doing._  
><em>_  
>"Softly, deftly, music shall caress you;<em>_  
>hear it, feel it, secretly possess you."<em>

Turning the door handle, the door opened with a click, revealing her savior in the form of an arrogant, yet eccentric masked composer. Erik.

"_Open up your mind; let your fantasies unwind,"_

Erik continued singing, not realizing that she wasn't wearing anything besides dripping water, only able to stare into her eyes. Her skin was white, as though she had seen a ghost, but at least her breathing had returned to normal.  
><em><br>"in this darkness which you know you cannot fight:  
>the darkness of the Music of the Night!"<em>

That was all he had been able to compose so far. And all of it had been because of Christine.

As though a spell was broken, Christine collapsed onto Erik's shoulder as she began to cry once more.

"Thank you, Erik," the petite female whispered into his ear between tears. Erik could barely manage a nod in response, so struck by how broken and small she looked. Neither of them realized that Messieurs Andre and Firmin had fled the scene.

…

Sitting cross legged in the living room on her favorite sofa, the soprano closed her eyes, enjoying the hot liquid that was crashing down her throat, burning on the way down. Sighing in happiness at the hot chocolate, Christine opened her eyes, only to find the still ashen-faced composer sitting opposite from her and watching her anxiously, as if she might collapse again.

Silence hung between them before Christine, after licking her lips, spoke. "We should talk about everything."

Silently, Erik nodded once, still observing the brunette. Despite the emotional mask that Erik was trying to wear, Christine could tell: He was coddling her. She had gained enough experience from her two contacts to recognize it.

"Well, do you want to start, or shall I?"

"I could begin, if it'll help take your mind away from everything else for a while," Erik responded, a little too quickly. Christine stared back at him, amazed. If she had known that he could be anything like this, Christine doubted that she would have acted so horribly when they had first met. Nodding, Christine scooted back from the edge of the couch before getting back into a comfortable position.

"I guess everything points back to my childhood," Erik began slowly, trying to formulate an outlined story to tell her. It was all true; however, he wasn't quite sure how much truth he should reveal. "My… mother, Madeline, would probably never receive the 'World's Best Mother' award, but I could never really blame her, what with how I looked. Every time I would request to see her, she would make sure that I was wearing a mask first. I remember when she gave me my first mask—it was more a piece of cloth, with an eyehole cut out, but then the masks she bought were better. I wouldn't call her shallow, but I would call her fearfully vain. She was always watching me when she thought I didn't notice, but she never once told me she loved me, nor did she ever hug me."

Christine let out a small gasp before taking another sip from her mug. _How horrible could she have been?_

Erik continued his story, his eyes becoming glassy from the memories. "I was told she committed suicide, but I never found her body. From what I could piece together, after _borrowing_ some police files, Madeline's body had washed up on a beach that was close to where we lived—both of her wrists were slit. I had woken up the morning she had first disappeared, and it was weeks before anyone thought to check her house. Right about then was when I first began to compose. Madeline used to throw things at me, never hitting of course, if I went anywhere near the antique piano from her father—she said that she didn't want me to 'spoil it for her', although she had no musical knowledge whatsoever. So when she left, I began to try and play the melodies that were always running through my head, picking out the notes I always heard.

"A friend of my…of Madeline's, named Nadir Kahn, was the one who found me, probably when I was around eight. But instead of running away and spurning me the way that my mother had, he adopted me. He was the one who paid for a private tutor, and when I became interested, he also began to train me in self-defense, then martial arts, then finally he taught me how to spar. I consumed every single piece of information he was willing to give me during the three and a half years I lived with him. What I _hadn't_ known, was that Nadir and Antoinette have been long time old friends, and while she had never met Madeline, she knew exactly what I was capable of, thanks to Nadir. While Nadir trained me, I trained my mind: teaching myself composition and also masking my emotions. When I reached the age of twelve, Antoinette agreed to let me in early for training. I completed the training program with Antoinette as my trainer and mentor in nine months—I was addicted, and could never stop learning, training or conditioning my body. At that moment, Antoinette made the decision to not let me into the field at such a young age, and I was originally so angry with her decision. While I had finished training so young, Antoinette did not believe that I was _mentally_ ready to take on assignments—if I had become an assassin that young, her theory was that I would only become a cold-blooded killer. And so she paid for me to have college professors in the subjects I really loved. Until I reached the age of eighteen, I immersed myself in everything musical: theory, history, technique and composition. Obviously at this point I realized that I was a prodigy—you most likely have read the PG version of my history online," Erik added at the last minute, receiving another nod in response.

"When I turned eighteen, I began to compose and sketch out ideas for _Don Juan Triumphant,_ and Antoinette allowed me to turn my full time "college" education into part time, and to take on my first client. For the first nine years, everything was perfect, and I was doing everything that I was trained to do. I composed during the day, and killed at night. _And _I was working by myself, which was an added bonus. But then it went horribly wrong. I was supposed to meet a second for an assignment, but he never showed. Angry at Antoinette for even _thinking _that I needed a second to take someone down, I decided to take the foolish route, and take the client on. Apparently I really needed to learn a lesson, because I woke up in the hospital the next day with almost everything damaged. My body was bandaged from head to toe; both my wrists and both my legs were in casts; I'm not even sure if anything _hurt_ really, but there was an IV bag hanging over my head, dripping something very powerful into my right arm… I found out later that the amount of morphine they were pumping me with should have killed me. Through the fog of unconcern in my head, I heard a doctor somewhere say, 'It looks like a burning building fell on top of him… or maybe like he fell out of one. His entire back is covered in scar tissue. I doubt he'll make it through this.'

"But I did. It took me close to a year and a half to get out of that hospital bed, and it took the rest of the second year for me to return to the Organization, but somehow I did it. Antoinette refused to allow me back in the field for quite a few years, instead making me assist with the training program. When she finally did, she made me agree to one stipulation: I had to work with a contact.

"Her name was Luciana," Erik said, before taking a deep breath. "She barely spoke any English, instead choosing to communicate with me through her native Italian—I had earlier learned the language privately with my university tutors. She was twenty-four years old when we met, and instantly we had an unspoken agreement: she never asked about my mask, and I never asked why she left her native country. Over the next few months, we gradually began to fall in love. Not passionately—I was always too scared to be rough with her—but gently and courteously. I believed her to be the one woman who was created to love me, and I thought that maybe, _just maybe_, she would be able to see past the mask and see me for what I truly was. And I believed that if she could still profess her love to me, then it would symbolize we were meant to be and I would propose. I set the scene on the rooftop of my apartment, with candlelight, a violinist and a master chef to create the most exquisite meal. I wanted to bring in as much perfection and beauty as I could for that evening in order to make that moment perfect—and I even hoped that the beauty of that evening could reflect onto my face.

"The moment was perfect: the sun was setting, the music was my own compositions written solely for her, and I had the box clutched tightly in my hand. I professed my love to her, and when she responded, I said that I wanted to share with her the truth behind my mask. Eagerly, she asked me to remove it. From this day I still believe that she thought I was just being eccentric—as though I hid part of my face at all times in jest. But when the mask came off, she realized that this was no joke. For a moment she was silent. Then she screamed, backing away from me. She was so flustered, and so disturbed by the grotesqueness of my face, that she…" Erik trailed off, gasping for breath as tears began to roll down his cheeks from the memory of that dreaded evening.

Christine watched him as he struggled with continuing his story. "Would you like me to speak?" She asked quietly, wondering how one person could suffer this much pain.

Erik shook his head. He _needed_ to say this himself. "She ran screaming blindly, and… she… fell over the guardrail and down…" He choked, unable to finish his sentence. "I killed… I killed an _innocent_. For once in my life… Now you understand why at the restaurant I was… so flustered, I wanted to tell you… I just…"

Quickly, Christine set her mug down on the coffee table between them, as she hurried to close the distance between them. Sitting next to him, she began to rub his back as he once more mourned the death of the woman he had once loved. _Now_ Christine understood why he had run away to Antoinette after opening night.

Moments later Erik's tears subsided. He realized that he was mourning the loss of the woman he _had_ loved, while being comforted by the woman he…was acquiring feelings for. "I'm sorry," he croaked out, feeling guilty at what he was doing. "I didn't mean…"

The soprano cut him off right there. "Don't think about apologizing for mourning your past. We all need to do that sometimes." Christine chewed her lip as she pondered her options before finally asking, "Would it help you if I told you my story?"

Erik paused before slowly nodding, his curiosity overcoming his sorrow. He wanted to know why she had become so _cold_ towards men in the past despite her warm and affectionate personality.

Christine closed her eyes for a moment before she began. "My mother, one of Antoinette's closest friends, died when I was six. From what I've gathered she was a member of the Organization, and when she died, my father fell apart. Andre and Firmin, who have both always been such close friends of the family, took care of my father, and Antoinette actually took me away for the first three years after my mother's death, and raised me like her second daughter—at the time, Meg was about six months older than me. I still don't know how she managed to raise both of us while running the Organization, but…"

Christine trailed off at the sound of a knock on the door. Alarmed, the assassins began to creep toward the door, ready to take down whatever enemy stood behind it. Motioning for him to stand to the side in order to initiate the first attack, Christine unbolted the door before opening it, only to stand there in surprise for a second, her eyes wide.

"Ra- Raoul…"


	14. Chapter Thirteen

_Hello there,_

_Unfortunately I've been out of writing commission... in one word: sick. Anyway, the letters below are excerpts/ full letters are written by Ludwig van Beethoven, Katherine of Aragon and John Keats. Hope you all enjoy the following chapter... only a bit of Raoul fop-iness!_

_Ever yours,_

_**Soprano in Shadow**  
><em>

* * *

><p>Grinning broadly, Christine leaped toward the blonde male in excitement who, in his astonishment, barely caught the soprano as they both tumbled to the hallway floor. Erik watched on—partly intrigued, yet mainly disgusted—as the soprano somehow ended up straddling… the <em>fop<em>.

"I can't believe you're here! Antoinette wouldn't let me come see you, wherever you were in Europe, and she said you weren't allowed to come here, but…"

Laughing, Raoul interrupted Christine's lively chatter, as he sat up, hugging the young woman before leaning back on his arms for support. "Antoinette gave me time off before my next assignment. It was Meg who gave me the coordinates of your location. You'll have to thank her."

"Oh, I will! We'll have to visit all of the usual places, and we'll stay up late, and…"

_They already had a set of 'usual places'? _Glowering, Erik chose to ignore Christine's growing list of activities, as he strode over to the tangled up couple. Tapping his foot impatiently, Erik watched as both faces turned up to see his own forgotten one—and seeing an angry, masked Erik was _always_ quite the frightening sight to behold. Well, at least that's what Erik told himself.

Christine just gave the Angel of Death a bright smile.

"Oh, Erik! Sorry, let me introduce the two of you. Raoul this is—"

"—Erik. Yes, we _have_ worked together before… _darling_," Raoul said, interrupting Christine rather smoothly. Ignoring the blonde man's word of endearment, Erik grinned smugly for a moment, expecting Christine to become annoyed at being interrupted twice in one conversation.

However Christine had other ideas, bestowing a quick kiss on Raoul's cheek. "I'm surprised—how were you able to manage _Mr. Erik Destler's_ temper?"

Raoul smirked at Erik, with a look that sent an uncomfortable chill down the compos0er's spine, before winking at Christine, saying, "Quite _properly_, _ma petite biche_, I assure you."

A low growl came from Erik's direction as a dark sneer grew behind his mask. "_What_ did you just call her?" the eccentric composer asked in a low voice. Christine's eyes grew wide at the ice laced through his words—although their first encounter had begun coldly, she had never heard Erik speak so venomously.

Grinning, Raoul threw one arm around Christine as he jumped off of the floor with the other, giving her a quick spin as they rose. Startled, Christine yelped, tightening the grip of her legs around Raoul's waist for a moment, before giggling and letting herself down off Raoul. Wrapping an arm around her waist possessively, Raoul smirked at the man before him who was trembling in rage—_he dared to handle Christine so familiarly?_

"_Ma petite biche,_" Raoul repeated again, drawing out each syllable. "It's French for 'my little doe'. Because of her eyes?"

Erik's face burned in humiliation, as he realized that he was acting too protective over Christine—_what was he to the soprano anyway, besides her second?_

Christine pulled away slowly from Raoul's grasp and looked between the both of them, as if trying to find a common ground. "Boys, boys, stop bickering. Can we all just go back inside and sort it out over a glass of wine? I'm so frazzled after today."

Nodding, Erik and Raoul both moved forward hoping to escort the brunette inside, only for Christine to enter the apartment without either of them as an escort.

Looking at each other for a moment, Erik paused before offering the blonde the chance to enter the apartment first, which Raoul eagerly took, before walking in behind him and locking the door.

…

Christine smiled as she flopped onto her bed happily, her mind in a daze. Who would have thought that they could have packed in so many activities in just two days? Raoul had always been her best friend, through thick and thin, and was also the one who had pulled her out of her darker days following her father's death. Hugging a pillow close to her chest, Christine closed her eyes, running the past couple days through her mind. Ever since Raoul had arrived, he had been determined in getting her out of this new funk she had been in: dragging her along sightseeing, finding new recipes on Epicurious... Everything had been happening so fast - too fast almost. As though Raoul was too worried to let her feet get pulled down by reality. But they did need to talk. Christine had so much to tell Raoul, she just needed to wait for the right moment. Then she could tell Raoul all about the murdered man in the opera box, the recurring dreams that she had been having, Erik...

Christine sat up, frowning at her last thought. Erik. Where had he been lately? Now that she thought about it, Christine hadn't seen him since he had completely opened up to her and Raoul had arrived. Perhaps Erik just didn't like how... open Raoul was about their closeness? Either way, he was avoiding her again, and it had to stop.

Peeking into the living area, Christine found Raoul napping on the sofa. Feeling a bit guilty about what she was about to do, Christine silently sneaked out of the apartment, closing the door behind her. She had a feeling she knew where Erik was.

...

Erik could tell already that having a…third wheel around was going to be an interesting adventure. It had only been two days, but already, Erik was _quite_ sure that Christine and Raoul were secret lovers—with the way their heads were always together, talking quietly, turning to look at the composer. Which is why he had left.

Furrowing his brow in absolute concentration, Erik closed his eyes as he played back the composition he had been working on for the past two days. Although it was more like a set of composition - Erik had become inspired: finding love letters between historically famous couples and setting them to his own compositions. He was currently working on one with the text written by Ludwig van Beethoven, and he was inspired. Erik knew from past experiences with Christine that she wouldn't be impressed if he brooded and raged about, and so instead he was going to share his feelings the best way he could: through music.

The piano accompaniment held soft crooning chords that almost cradled the text when it was sung.

_Ever thine, ever mine—_

_ever ours!_

_Even when I am in bed_

_my thoughts rush to you, my eternally beloved,_

_now and then joyfully, then again sadly_

_waiting to know whether Fate will hear our prayer—_

_To face life I must live altogether with you or never see you._

_No other woman can ever possess my heart—never—_

_Never! Oh God!_

_Why must one be separated from her who is so dear?_

_Your love has made me both the happiest_

_and the unhappiest of mortals—_

_At my age I now need stability and regularity in my life—_

_can this coexist with our relationship?_

_Be calm; for only by _

_calmly considering our lives,_

_can we achieve our purpose to live together?_

_Be calm! Love me!_

_Today! Yesterday—_

_What tearful longing for you—_

_For you—you, my life, my all—_

_All good wishes to you—_

_Oh, do continue to love me—_

_Never misjudge your lover's most faithful heart._

_Ever thine, ever mine—_

_Ever ours. _

Smiling, in triumph Erik sat back from the piano, as he held the ending notes in his mind, only to scowl at the sound of applause. Turning to give a sharp demand to leave, Erik saw that it was none other than Christine.

Giving a little mock bow from the piano bench, Erik bestowed upon the brunette a soft smile.

"That was... I'm lost for words yet again, Monsieur Destler," she said playfully, wiping away a small amount of tears that had collected on her face. "How do you always do this?"

Erik beamed at the compliment, her light voice music for his ears alone. "I only compose what I feel, Christine. And this is what I've felt since..." He trailed off, entirely unsure how to finish his sentence.

Realizing that she was without her blonde companion, Erik's mood shifted turning sour at the thought of him. "Where's your lover? Got tired of him already?" Erik snapped suddenly, causing Christine to flinch back. Sighing, he ran his hand through his hair. "Forgive me, I've kept myself locked up in this building for the past couple days- I'm rather grouchy from the lack of food."

Nodding in response, Christine smiled in understanding, before walking over to the piano. Composition sheets filled with the composer's handwriting littered the top of the grand piano, and Christine picked up the top sheet in order to inspect the music. She frowned at the title.

"Katherine of Aragon?" Christine asked slightly puzzled.

Erik nodded before responding with, "King Henry VIII's wife. The text was pulled from a letter she wrote to him after he had married another in secret before her death." He hesitated for a moment. "Would you mind singing it? I had, of course, written it with your voice... your voice _type_ in mind, and I did want to check a couple of these chords."

Smiling at Erik's request, Christine nodded before quickly running through a few humming exercises in order to get her vocal cords warmed up, while moving behind the piano bench where Erik was seated, so that both of them could read the music together from the piano's stand.

Looking back as she warmed up, Erik waited for her to give another nod, before turning back around and playing the opening measures of music. Almost at once, Christine's voice began to intermingle with the mournful accompaniment he played, as she sang.

_My most dear lord, king and husband,__  
><em>_The hour of my death now drawing on, _

_the tender love I owe you forceth me, _

_my case being such, to commend myself to you, _

_and to put you in remembrance _

_with a few words of the health _

_and safeguard of your soul, _

_which you ought to prefer before all worldly matters, _

_and before the care and pampering of your body, _

_for the which you have cast me into many calamities _

_and yourself into many troubles. _

_For my part, I pardon you everything, _

_and I wish to devoutly pray God that _

_He will pardon you also._

_For the rest, I commend unto you our daughter Mary, _

_beseeching you to be a good father unto her, _

_as I have heretofore desired. _

_I entreat you also, on behalf of my maids, _

_to give them marriage portions, which is not much, _

_they being but three. _

_For all my other servants I solicit the wages due them, _

_and a year more, lest they be unprovided for._

_Lastly, I make this vow, that mine eyes desire you above all things.  
>Katharine the Queen.<em>

Wiping off the tears that had begun to once more collect, Christine startled the still sitting Erik by flinging her arms around his neck, hugging him from behind.

"Thank you for allowing me to sing that... It was... b- beautiful." Closing his eyes at her touch, Erik knew he would be cherishing this moment for as long as he lived.

Releasing Erik from her grasp, Christine backed away before standing by the curve of try the piano once more, facing him. "And now, because I sang for you, you must sing one for me." Looking through the numerous sheets of compositions, Christine studied two of them before handing her selection over to Erik.

Reading the title of the art song, Erik looked up at a beaming Christine, bemused.

"Why, may I ask, this particular piece one over the others?"

Christine grinned. "Because Keats holds quite an amount of sentiment in my heart." Erik looked at the brunette for a moment before placing the music on the stand before him and sitting back down on the piano bench. Playing the first note of the written baritone's passage, Erik breathed in deeply before letting out the solemn, yet comical, letter from John Keats.

_Sweetest Fanny,_

_You fear, sometimes, I do not_

_Love you so much as you wish?_

_My dear Girl, I love you ever and ever_

_And without reserve._

_The more I have known you, the more I have lov'd._

_I have vex'd you too much. _

_But for Love! Can I help it?_

_The last of your kisses was ever the sweetest;_

_The last smile the brightest;_

_The last movement the gracefullnest._

_Even if you did not love me, _

_I could not help an entire devotion to you:_

_how much more deeply then must I feel for you _

_knowing you love me._

_When you are in the room my thoughts never fly out of window: _

_you always concentrate my whole senses._

_The anxiety shown about our Love in your last note _

_is an immense pleasure to me; however_

_you must not suffer such speculations to molest you any more: _

_nor will I any more believe you can have the least pique against me. _

_Brown is gone out - but here is Mrs Wylie – _

_when she is gone I shall be awake for you._

_Remembrances to your Mother.  
>Your affectionate, <em>

_John Keats _

Erik watched Christine as the piece ended, fascinated with the entranced expression held on her face. How could someone so beautiful understand this sort of pain? The masked composer watched as the soprano slowly walked back towards him, a new expression in her eyes. Humming the haunting melody of what he had just previously sung, she stretched her arms out, beckoning for him to hold her hands.

Wordlessly, Erik's hands met Christine's and, with a little tug from Christine, he stood up, understanding her silent call. Wrapping her arms around his neck, Christine laid the side of her head against his chest, never stopping the melody coming from her lips. Slowly she began to sway to her humming, as Erik stood there feeling almost dumbfounded. _Did she have any idea what she was doing to him?_

Feeling bold, Erik inhaled for a moment, before encircling the back of her waist with his own arms, and swaying along with the brunette. Swallowing a sigh of contentment, Erik fought to refrain from laying his own head on top of Christine.

He lost.

Instinct took over as he began to hum as well, every once in a while breathing in the scent of Christine. He felt elated. She hadn't stopped him, pulled away or screamed. Even though she now knew everything about him: being lost, arrogant and broken. All of these phases of him, Erik… she accepted. She had seen his face, and had even called him attractive. The only question was: what should he do now?

"You're thinking too much, Erik." Christine's voice was soft yet firm, almost as if saying it as an afterthought. Erik looked down, alarmed, only to see the woman's face smiling back up at him. Returning to her humming, Christine seemed to stare at him for a moment, before quickly slipping off the composer's white mask and placing it on top of the black grand piano. Immediately, one of Erik's hands left the petite brunette's waist in order to instinctively hide the grotesque sight of his face… only for Christine's hand to be blocking him, as it already lay on his deformed cheek, almost stroking the bared muscle and ruined flesh.

"No. Don't ruin this. Please." Erik paused for a moment before settling his hand back on her waist.

He swallowed, his throat suddenly feeling dry. "Are… You're sure? I can't feel as though this is appropriate with the current status of our…relationship."

Christine let out a soft laugh, her hazel eyes twinkling in amusement. "What relationship? We _have_ no relationship. The only thing we're doing at the moment is working together, and that's because every time I try to start something, _you_ run away." Erik made a movement to move away from their close contact, only to feel Christine resisting him. "Don't you _dare_run away now," Christine said in a low hiss. "Don't you dare try and keep the both of us in this ever constant dance of flirtations. I'm sick of it, Erik."

Erik stilled at her words. _What was she saying?_Erik had been growing steadily uncomfortable with the way this conversation was growing, although he knew what she was talking about. He would be hot and passionate one moment, and distant the next—he didn't blame the poor girl for finally confronting him.

"Christine, we can't. I've told you about my past, about Luciana. You've seen my mask, and we work reasonably well together. What more could you want from me? We…" he trailed off before croaking out the rest of his thoughts. "I may want you, to be _with_you, every day. But we can't."

He pushed himself away from her, away from his dreams and his hopes of one day being in a relationship. As much as he wanted to fall into this dream, he knew that reality would only follow as quickly: she would grow tired of seeing his ugliness every day, and she would find another (handsome) man instead. And he would most likely be ripped apart if she ever left him. So he would have to deny himself the hope _now_. He would have to hurt her, but it had to be done.

"What you want, Christine, I can't give you. Ever. I'm not the relationship sort of man. I may have loved Luciana, and yes, I may have planned on proposing, but I'll never make that mistake again. And I would never dare to think of doing anything close to that with you." He kept his expression blank, and his eyes cold. The only thing that could give him away now was the rapid beating of his heart.

Christine's face paled as his words began to sink in. _Had her emotions been played with _again_?_Erik watched her reaction, expecting the brunette to act out impulsively in anger.

He didn't expect to see tears beginning to well up. Nor did he expect Christine to push him up against the piano, and kiss him.

Almost at once, Erik was transported to that first kiss they shared together on stage: it was long and steamy with hinted tones of desperation.

Closing his eyes in enjoyment, Erik began to lose himself into the kiss, before pushing her away. He _would not_ crumble—if he didn't do this now, he would get hurt later on. This was for his future, for their _separate_futures.

"No!" he barked out the singular syllable, and Christine flinched, stumbling back from the force of his push, her hand brushing against her tingling lips and her body shaking with confusion.

"You're lying, Erik Destler. Why are you lying to me? Why are you doing this? Erik? Erik!" Christine's voice rose with each word in the heat of her confusion, and Erik turned, leaving the room and the woman he loved most.

"Dammit—you can't just kiss a girl like that and walk away, Erik Destler!"


	15. Chapter Fourteen

_Hello there, _

_Alright, so I'm probably in quite a bit of trouble with some of you for not updating for two weeks, however let me explain: I came home from NYC, and since my poor laptop died, I was without computer access for two weeks until now. I also spent yesterday working on a calendar of events for this fanfic, so I can keep track of when the opera is still being performed, how many clients have been killed, etc. I decided to keep this chapter a bit shorter than normal, just so that it would help me get back into the swing of things. Now that I know my class schedule, I'll probably keep with updating once a week, unless I have a huge project or exam... got to love college. _

_Anyway, I hope that all of you will forgive me-please let me know what you think of this chapter by reviewing. I want to know what all of you think of the twist I put at the end: out of the blue or expected?_

_Ever yours, _

_**Soprano in Shadow**  
><em>

* * *

><p>Erik groaned as his internal body clock awoke him—the little sleep he had gained would barely suffice. Glancing at the clock, which he knew would read six a.m., the unmasked composer lay in his bed for a moment reflecting on the past twenty-four hours.<p>

He had _kissed_ Christine Daae.

And it hadn't been out of desperation on his behalf. Quite the opposite in fact, with _her _chasing after him. _She had pushed him against the piano, in order to show the love she held for him_. In return, he had pushed her away and made a run for it, in his own desperation to keep what little sanity he could hold together. He could have taken her right then. Instead, he had fled in fear of his own sexual prowess. Sure, he had _been_ with women in the past—but those were walkers of the night, ones who did not deserve remembrance.

And his beloved Luciana… _Ah, Luciana_. She would only curse the rest of his life, and Erik knew that Christine did not deserve that sort of madness.

Then he smiled, his mournful thoughts of his past love melting away to make room for his new love, at the thought of afterward. The hellcat had _stalked_ him like a tigress coveting its dinner. And when he had locked and bolted his bedroom, adding a few pieces of furniture to barricade the door, she had howled in fury, screeching at anyone nearby to _let her in_. Erik could almost gloat to Raoul about how Christine had wanted Erik. Not Raoul. She had actually hungered to hear his heartbeat on her ear, to see the ugliness of his face, to feel his lips caress her skin…

He shook his head in annoyance, brushing away those heated feelings of desire. He would continue this assignment as though none of this had occurred. He would have to be distant, discreet, and soulless. He would also have to get out of bed in order to ready himself for his morning run, but this morning, the idea of leaving behind his daydreams of Christine Daae was proving to be too difficult.

Growling at himself, Erik swung himself out of bed, the muscles of his back taut as he stood up and stretched out his arms, his focus settling on the pile of furniture against his door. Setting to the task, he decided that this could be a nice substitute for his normal sets of arm and ab exercises. Finishing a few minutes later, Erik glanced at his dresser for a moment, before walking into his adjoining bathroom…

Only for him to walk back out and stare once more at his dresser, focusing mainly on the stack of folders that lay there—or at least used to. He knew that besides the eight clients he had taken care of a few days ago—the morning after Raoul had arrived, in fact—there were at least nineteen still left for him to deal with. _So where had the other nineteen folders run off to?_

Returning back to his bathroom, Erik went through the morning ritual of preparing for his daily run, while debating whether or not to be concerned. Shrugging it off as being unimportant, Erik continued with finishing his morning ritual and transitioning into stretches.

A knock on his door broke the composer out of his routine. Cautiously, Erik opened the door a crack in order to stick his head out in order to see who his visitor was. Christine. Always Christine. Erik silently cursed himself for not leaving to run sooner, as he offered her a quizzical smile. "Yes, Christine?"

The brunette glared at the masked man for a moment, before breaking eye contact. "It's 'Miss Daae', Mr. Destler," Christine snapped, before closing her eyes for a moment and smiling. Erik watched her silently, alarmed at her sudden hostility. "Anyway, I was wondering if you had seen my files—they were on my desk last night, I remember seeing them after we- before I, well…went to sleep. However, when I woke up this morning, they weren't there. Any ideas?"

Erik studied her for a moment. _Was this a joke?_ The girl had to know about his own files missing—why else would she come here and ask about her own?

"Unfortunately, _Miss Daae_, I have no idea where your files may have gone. My own pile has also gone missing, save for the clients I had already taken care of. Perhaps we should alert Andre?"

Christine shook her head. "No need to worry him—he'll just alert Antoinette, and then she'll cause a fuss. No, I'll just see if I perhaps misplaced them."

As the soprano turned to leave, Erik saw a flash of sadness held behind the hardness of Christine's hazel eyes. "Chris- Miss Daae? May I have a moment of your time?"

Christine turned once more to look at him, before shaking her head. "I believe, Monsieur Destler, that you have taken up plenty of my time already. There's nothing left to be said between us. I have no problem with performing with you onstage, but off stage? I'm considering you as merely a flat mate and colleague until this assignment is over—I suggest you do the same."

Erik watched her departing form, a sense of overwhelming guilt filling his stomach. He had done this. He had taken this wonderful and ever cheerful woman and broken her within almost three weeks of knowing her. He was a monster.

Tying on his running shoes, the composer went through the motions of making his way outside of the building: out of the apartment, down the elevator and out of the main door. Instantly, Erik could sense the signs of autumn: the golden leaves, the cooler air, the faint scent of pumpkins and spices carried by the wind. How had the whole month of September crept by so quickly? With it already being the second of October, Erik knew that their rest from opening week would be soon coming to an end—the next performance being in three days with a steady schedule of two to three performances per week, as the opera house began to introduce the operas that would follow _Don Juan Triumphant_ during the remainder of its season.

This is what he needed: fresh air and time to think. Erik began his run down the River Walk at Chelsea, granting himself views of the Hudson River, with his final destination being the lower neighborhoods of Manhattan. However it seemed that this morning, all Erik could see were couples in love—not one person was walking by themselves.

_Would it really be a bad idea to pursue Christine?_ Despite the firm resolve of his mind, Erik couldn't help but see that he was in denial. He loved her, however he would never want to put Christine in a relationship that would also hold her captive. The last thing Erik would ever want Christine to do was hate him, but at the same time, Christine seemed angrier over the fact that Erik wanted nothing to do with her. Besides, she was old enough to make her own decisions, wasn't she? She had lived through the death of her father, had killed countless clients, while also maintaining her own individual identity of being an opera singer. That alone had to prove the girl's own maturity.

_Didn't it?_

Several minutes had gone by, and Erik realized that he had ended up in the West Village now; he would cross over through SoHo to the East Village, and then up though Murray Hill and Midtown East, cross over again to Chelsea, and then he would be done for today. Perhaps this longer run would enable him to finally make a decision and be resolved to stick with it.

…

Sitting on the edge of Christine's bed, Raoul whispered consoling words and rubbed her back, as the soprano's sobs were muffled by the pillow she laid on.

"Hush, Little Lottie… He couldn't have been that terrible to you. Perhaps things will look better tomorrow. Just cry for today, little darling," Raoul crooned, his forehead scrunched in worry. In all of his years of knowing Christine, Raoul had never seen the brunette this distraught over a man since the deaths of her tutor and father. Ever since her small confrontation with Erik, almost two hours ago, Christine had been crying. "But you did tell him how you felt, exactly like we discussed, right? And he still denied you?"

Christine removed her face from the tear stained pillow and nodded. "B-but he's…l-l-lying! He said he—_hiccup—_didn't l-love me… but h-h-he does!" Christine knew she looked a mess—her face pink, her eyes puffing, her nose running—but in front of her best friend, she could hardly care less. Raoul knew everything about her, all of her secrets, just like Christine knew everything about the blonde man who sat beside her.

"Darling, what if you just finished this double life? Let it be your last assignment, please, hun. Just do what you the love the most and perform! Why linger in the Organization, when it's just taken away everything from you? Even if you retired now from both worlds, you would have enough money to let you live a very comfortable and quiet life. You should follow what your father wished and stop living this life."

Christine's hiccups became even more tiresome as her sobbing subsided. "B-but Papa promised me my angel of music, Raoul. He s-said that my angel of music would come and protect me when I needed him most, and that I would have a sign, and I would know."

Raoul looked at her confused. "Know what, darling?"

Christine shrugged. "I don't know. That's when he died. I don't know what I'm supposed to know, just that I _will_ know."

Raoul frowned for a moment, before smiling. Moving from the edge of Christine's bed, Raoul, got down on one knee, his hands clasping Christine's.

Christine looked down at Raoul in shocked realization of what the blonde man was doing. "Raoul!"

Winking, Raoul smiled. "Christine Daae—my _dear_ Little Lottie—let me take you away from all of this pain. Be my bride, and always live happily in the lap of luxury. We've always been best friends, and I know that Mother would surely approve of this alliance, so let us be merry and allow me to be your shelter and light. Will you be mine, darling?"

Laughing, Christine flung her arms around Raoul's neck, and kissed both of the kneeling man's cheeks. "Oh Raoul, you are such a dear! Such a dear, and so absolutely wonderful! What a divine idea!"

Sighing happily at Raoul, Christine kissed the blonde's cheek once more. "Oh, Raoul. If only I didn't love him. If you had given me this proposition before meeting Erik, I would have happily said yes. But now? I don't think I'd be able to look at him if I agreed."

"He would never have to know, Little Lottie. It would be our own secret little engagement. As soon as this assignment is done, you would never have to see him again. Then you could mend your heart, and I could have you all to myself for some time, before I'm sent out on assignment once more. What do you say to that?"

Giggling, Christine nodded. "Let's do it, Raoul! I'll marry you then, as long as we are in agreement!"

Then the brunette turned serious, as she pulled away from the smiling man. "But what about your mother? I'm sure she would want you to be happy and settled with someone you truly love?"

Raoul shrugged his shoulders, the laughter dying away from his eyes, as his voice took on a bitter tone. "Dearest _maman_ loves me, however my route of happiness is not…within her tastes. She says I may keep a lover on the side, as long as a legitimate heir is born. Besides, you have taken the only man that I would have wanted to…enjoy. And if he is women-bound, then there is no hope for him and me.

"However, darling, would it be so bad, just the two of us? We would have our separate lives—all I would need is an heir. We know each other's secrets, so it would be a marriage of honesty and convenience, and if your heart ever learned to love another, then I would release you from our union, and we would still be the best of friends as we are today."

Christine smiled softly. "Thank you, Raoul, but I don't think there will ever be another who I would love as dearly as I love Erik. He may be an arrogant, pig-headed man, but he's the man I love. However, I would rather be married to you and far away from him, than wander this world alone without him by my side."

…

"_Let's do it, Raoul! I'll marry you then, as long as we are in agreement!"_

Erik's fists tightened as he strode back to his own room, his face clenched in anger. He had gone to Christine's room in order to apologize, and perhaps try and begin fresh once more, when he had overheard the _little vicomte's_ proposal. The nerve of that…that _fop_!

His pace slowed, as he remembered Christine's sad words of, _"If only I didn't love him."_ She loved him, but now she would willingly throw that love she held for him away, in order to bind herself to a marriage of convenience? In truth, Erik didn't blame the girl—she was heartbroken and confused—but Raoul? Raoul would pay!

Growling, Erik muttered under his breath before slamming his bedroom door, "Well then, let it be war between us, Raoul de Chagny! And let us pray, you poor bastard, that a disaster beyond your imagination will _not _occur!"


	16. Chapter Fifteen

_Hello there,_

_I woke up this morning inspired, and decided to type this up and post it as a sort of apology for being MIA these past few weeks. Hope you enjoy!_

_Ever yours, _

_**Soprano in Shadow**  
><em>

* * *

><p>Christine had been looking for him for three days, but Erik was nowhere to be found. Ever since she had declared that he had wasted enough of her time, he had disappeared. She had torn the apartment apart and had looked through every nook and cranny of the opera house, but still there was no arrogant, self-centered, foolish… there was no <em>Erik<em>. And while Christine had agreed to be Raoul's fiancé, in order to protect what remained of her heart from that indecisive fool, she couldn't deny that she was _still_ in love with the masked composer. Within three weeks, she had done the one thing that she hadn't done in three years: given her heart to a man, one who didn't even know what he wanted to _be_ to her. It was downright embarrassing.

However at the moment, what was even more embarrassing (on top of all of her feelings), was that she had lost her second, and baritone just in time for tonight's performance—the first one since the ending of opening week.

"Still no luck, Cat?" Andre asked her, as she stared helplessly into the dark corners of the composer's room. Turning to face one of the men who had been like a father to her, Christine shook her head and buried her face into his comforting shoulder, feeling almost ready to cry once more. _Who was this girl?_ Since Christine had been sixteen, a tear had never glistened in her eye, and her feelings had been locked away—the perfect assassin. And now? Now she was this blubbering, crying fool who cared more about finding a _man_ than finding her clients. Speaking of which…

Christine pulled away, wiping away a few tears that had escaped her eyes. "You didn't by chance move my stack of folders, did you? I'm behind Eri- Mr. Destler, and I really _do_ need to catch up."

Andre shook his head. "Sorry, Cat, but the last time I saw them, they were on your desk when I had to carry you kicking and screaming from Erik's door a few nights ago, and stand guard so that you wouldn't actually try to break into his room again."

Christine nodded, and turned to head back to her room—she had blades to polish and sharpen—when Andre called out to her. "Cat, if I may ask, why are you doing this? Why marry Raoul? We all know you love Erik, including Raoul. And Firmin and I can tell that he's… well more _our_ cup of tea than yours, if I may say so myself." Andre winked at the girl causing her to giggle. "But why get yourself locked in a tower for the rest of your life, when you could most likely have Erik wrapped around your finger?"

Christine's bright face turned glum at the mention of having Erik. "Because I tried, Andre. I put my heart out there for him. And do you know what he did? He beckoned it closer, worshipped it, caressed it… and then he took a hammer, some nails and crucified it. I may be locked in a tower by marrying Raoul, but he's my best mate, and he _understands_. We're both in the same position, Andre. We're both lonely, and we both want to spend more time together. At least I'll be with someone who wants me emotionally, and I'm allowed to leave the marriage if I love someone else. It's the only thing to do that makes sense. I need to leave the Organization, Andre. I think this will be my last assignment, and then I'm going to Antoinette to see what can be done."

Andre looked serious for a moment, as if he had something on his mind, when his eyes turned warm, and his face broke into a smile. "Alright, hun, if you're sure. Just as long as you still love Firmin and me, then I can't complain." He winked once more, before letting the soprano head back to her room.

Once he was sure that she was no longer in the hallway, Andre reached into his pocket for his phone, speed dialed the only person who would probably find this interesting. "_Antoinette_? We have a problem…"

…

Christine tried to smile all during the first scene of Act Two, but her heart wasn't in it. Raoul was currently watching the performance from a box, and after the performance, they would be announcing their engagement to the press. Andre was backstage in order to help guard her from the crowds post-performance, and Firmin was seated beside Raoul and Carlotta. She had found out from the stage director that Mr. Destler had requested his understudy to perform the role, however not even the bubbly woman could explain why to Christine. Even Nathaniel looked surprised by the composer's attitude. He had walked away from her saying, "That bloody bastard…" although Christine wasn't sure if it was because Erik was missing, or because Nathaniel knew something.

Staring at herself in the mirror, Christine mentally scolded herself over and over again. She was a famous opera singer. No matter how damaged her personal life was, the show _must_ go on! Sighing, Christine began to mentally prepare herself for the sensual Scene Three. She had never practiced this duet with the understudy, so she hoped that the man would know what to do. She had met the bloke, Michael… _something_, before the performance had begun, and while his voice had some power beneath it, it was still raw whereas Erik's was polished and rich.

"Five minutes, Miss Daae," The director's assistant said, peeping his head into her dressing room in order to make sure that she had heard. Christine turned and smiled in thanks, before looking back at her reflection in the mirror.

"Oh, Erik. Where have you gone now?" Christine asked her reflection quietly. When her reflection could not deliver a timely response, the brunette sighed and, getting up from her chair, Christine moved to the stage right wing, her face filled with wonder, her eyes wide. She had a role to perform.

…

As the audience roared its approval at the drop of the final curtain, Christine couldn't help but think how pathetic people truly were. Could they not hear the hollowness of her voice, the lack of passion in this new baritone's voice? They were all fools, each and every one of them!

Her curtsies finished, Christine flashed a smile to her leading man. "Thank you so much for standing in this evening, Michael. You were a wonderful help." With a flash of her smile and a bat from her eyelashes, Christine was gone, turning on her heel and moving away before the understudy could even thank the prima donna for her kind words. Michael blushed at her smile and dark eyes, the dream of singing with his idol now complete.

At once, the soprano's cheerful disposition melted away into her real expression: tired and haggard. She wanted Erik back. Turning the knob of her dressing room door, Christine opened the door, and slipping into the darkness, closed the door while searching for the light switch.

A moment later, the members of the audience closest to the stage and the opera's cast and crew all froze as they heard a chilling scream coming from the leading lady's dressing room. There was trouble.

Andre's face paled, as he ran as quickly as he could across the stage behind the curtain. _This blasted leg._ Crashing through the dressing room door, Andre whipped out a gun with a silencer muzzle from within his dress coat, when his mind finally registered the scene. There was Christine in the far corner of her dressing room trembling in a way that Andre hadn't seen since the girl was sixteen.

And there on her dressing room table laid a corpse, with its face mutilated beyond recognition and the throat torn out, dressed only in an undershirt and boxers.

"W-who's done this. Who would do such a _sick_ thing?" Christine cried out shakily as tears began to run from her eyes.

Tied to a toe on the man's foot was a gift tag:

_For Christine._

…

Three hours later, and Christine finally found herself back in the apartment, her body still shaking from this evening's shock. Raoul had his arm around her waist and was leading her to her bedroom, while Firmin was talking avidly on his cell phone trying to control the press. Andre had disappeared an hour after police had arrived, no doubt either on a conference call with Antoinette and the council, or on a plane to speak with her in person.

As Raoul flicked the light switch of Christine's bedroom on, Christine stood there frozen at the sight of a folder on her bed. On the top of the folder, a black X had been drawn in what looked like paint.

And then the hysteria began again. Collapsing onto the floor, Christine began to shake uncontrollably; her body scrunched into a loose fetal position, as Raoul picked up the folder and opened it. Inside was an official profile sheet from the Organization, complete with a man's photo. Alarmed, Raoul showed it to Christine, who paled.

"That is one of my client's folders. I was going to take care of him a few days ago, but the whole stack was missing. He was definitely one of mine though," Christine said, certain of seeing the photo before.

Nodding, Raoul pulled out his phone and dialed the Organization's connection to the NYPD. "Hello, Inspector? Raoul de Chagny here. Some more information about the body found in the opera house…Yes, his name is Dr. Phillip Cassava—it seems as though he was one of Miss Daae's clients, and involved in chemical products. Yes. She's right here, although I doubt she'll want to talk anymore about anything. Oh, we do know that there was a stack of about—how many, Chris? Oh right—of about twenty-seven clients' folders that has gone missing….The names? I'm sure Miss Daae could provide them in the next couple days. Yes, I believe one of Miss Daae's contacts is alerting _Madame_ of the situation. Yes. Yes, I will. Alright, well goodnight, Inspector. We'll alert you if anything else comes up."

Putting his phone away, Raoul bent down, and scooped up the trembling soprano, placing her gently on her bed.

Christine looked at her best friend worriedly. "Who would do this to me, Raoul? Who knows that I'm part of the Organization? Who knew how to sneak in while I was sleeping and steal my folders? Why would anyone do this?"

Raoul shook his head, unsure of what to say. "I don't know, Lottie. I only know that we need to get you to sleep. You need to relax—you have a matinee in two days. Shall I sleep with you tonight, Lottie?" Seeing the quick nod of his best friend, Raoul pulled the blankets back and over both himself and the brunette. Any _straight_ man would have taken advantage of this situation, but Raoul? Besides being out of the closet, Raoul was only concerned for his best friend's well-being. Christine snuggled against the blonde man, already beginning to fall asleep, as the shock started to wear off. Frowning, the soprano began to mutter under her breath.

Raoul froze for a moment, wondering if she was dreaming already. "What did you say, Lottie?"

"Erik…Bring Erik back, Papa."

Raoul smiled sadly, as he began to absentmindedly run his fingers through her glossy locks. _Erik, where are you?_

…

Andre strode through the Organization's headquarters, tired from the flight and worried about how _Madame_ was going to take this. He found the elder woman in one of the training rooms, clad in black hakamas and a grey t-shirt, instructing a class of girls on beginner's swordplay. Knocking on the open door, Andre's face paled at the sight of the _Madame_'s wrath as the older woman whipped around at the sound, with the grace of a twenty-year-old. _No one_ under normal circumstances was allowed to interrupt a class that _Madame_ taught.

"_What!_" Antoinette Giry snapped, her patience wearing thin. However, at the sight of Andre, her expression softened. "Andre? What are you doing here?"

Andre gave a short nod towards the woman in respect, before beginning to address his concerns. "_Madame_, I'm sorry for leaving Miss Daae behind and interrupting one of your sessions, but this was an emergency, and I wasn't sure what else I could do without your direct instructions. We have a problem back in New York, which requires your immediate attention." All of the girls began to whisper at the name of 'Daae'. Christine Daae was _reputed_ as one of the deadliest assassins in the history of the Organization, and the first woman to be so. She was a legend among the young students.

Antoinette's sharp gaze silenced the gossiping girls, and finally pierced through Andre's troubled one, and with a nod, the head of the Organization dismissed her class. "Well, I'll be the judge of that. Ladies, you are dismissed. Andre, my office. Now." All of the girls presented a short bow, as Antoinette swept out of the training room, with Andre hot on her heels. Within a minute, the pair was locked safely in Antoinette's office, with the leader of the Organization seated behind her desk.

"Now, Andre. Tell me what all of this is about."

Andre swallowed, his throat suddenly feeling dry at the prospect of sharing the news he had. "W-well, _Madame_," Andre began slowly, "it seems as though Erik Destler has disappeared…"

Antoinette closed her eyes in sheer frustration of the stubborn composer's actions. Picking up the office phone on her desk, Antoinette dialed the scouting department's number. "Hello, this is Antoinette Giry. Yes, I need a trace on one of our Organization members. Erik Destler—he's one of mine, a dark red rose—last seen in New York. Get all of our contacts in the FBI and Scotland Yard looking for him, but do not alert the council that we are looking, and _absolutely no contact_ is to be made with Mr. Destler. I just want to know where he is. Thank you."

Antoinette placed the phone back on the receiver, before reaching for the crystal decanter of scotch found on her desk, and pouring herself a glass. "I wonder what it is that upset Erik—he has never disobeyed an order, or left an assignment unfinished." Antoinette paused in pouring her scotch, as she studied the nervous Daae contact. "Anything else I need to know about this situation?"

"Well, Raoul de Chagny arrived a few days ago…"

Antoinette looked surprised at that. "So my Meg must have contacted Raoul, since I specifically instructed Christine not to bother the poor man, hmm? And then he came to 'rescue' his best friend, of course. And Erik was already half in love with poor Christine by then. Oh my…"

Andre looked uncomfortable. "From what Firmin and I have gathered, it seems as though Raoul has proposed to Christine… And Cat…Well, you see _Madame_, she was so heartbroken over something that Erik did, that Cat accepted Raoul's proposal. And she's expecting to retire immediately after this assignment. I think that… well- I believe that Erik Destler may have overheard their conversation up until when Cat accepted de Chagny's proposal. It also seems that someone has uncovered Christine Daae's identity."

Antoinette closed her eyes once more at the plan that Christine had come up with, but they shot open at the news concerning her adopted daughter's identity. "Was Christine injured?"

"No, _Madame_. However, one of her clients' bodies was found in her dressing room after a performance, and her stack of files went missing a few days beforehand. Raoul de Chagny has already confirmed with me that contact with our inspector in the NYPD has been made, and they are waiting for your instructions."

Antoinette closed her eyes in shock, massaging his temples. "Thank you, Andre," Antoinette said wearily. "Now start from the very beginning, and tell me in detail everything that has happened since Erik arrived on assignment."

…

Erik sighed, finally content, as the pilot announced overhead that they had successfully landed in Amsterdam. Finally, he would try and live a peaceful life. While he had ultimately be angry with Raoul, and desired above everything else to subject the blonde _fop_ to some terrible accident, Erik knew that the moment he did that, the Organization would keep him on lock down. What he needed to do now was forget Christine Daae and his feeling for her. It would be like hitting the refresh button; he would take as much time as was needed before facing the wrath of Antoinette Giry. She would understand. He_ would_ forget Christine Daae, Erik repeatedly told himself firmly.

He would forget his heart.


	17. Chapter Sixteen

_Hello there,_

_Well, well, well... It seems as though all hope might be lost, hmm? So let's summarize: Erik has run away to Amsterdam from Christine (who is now engaged to Raoul, even though_ he_ is gay, in order to heal her broken heart), who is the one woman who has seen his face, and accepts him for who he is. Someone's out to get Christine's clients and Antoinette isn't quite sure what to do. So now that I've created a big mess of everyone and everything, let's see how this all pans out, shall we?_

_Ever yours, _

_**Soprano in Shadow**_

_Christine walked toward his bed, draped only in a rose-colored sheer robe, a sultry smile playing on her lips. _

Erik shot up from his bed, bathed in sweat. Outside of his hotel room, the streets of Amsterdam were silent, save for the monotonous hoots from several owls. Shaking his head in annoyance, Erik slid out from under the sheets, and sitting on the edge of the bed, began to wonder when the image of Christine that was burned into his mind would fade away. He also wondered when his head would begin to stop pounding.

A red manicured hand touched his back, causing the composer to stiffen. Turning his head slightly, he was horrified and disgusted to be greeted by the sight of a tousled blond head complete with large blue eyes.

"Who are you?" Erik rasped, demanding to know how a strange girl could dare to act so familiar with his person. Then flashbacks began to stream his mind—flashbacks from only hours earlier.

After a week of failed compositions, Erik had burst into the first bar he could find and growled to the bartender to pour a double whiskey, neat, with a wedge of lime, and to keep them coming. He had downed two glasses within a minute, too frustrated to nurse his drinks patiently and enjoy the taste. Completely terrified, the bartender had done exactly that: he poured the mysterious masked man double whiskeys, and he didn't stop. Several short glasses later, once Erik had confidently decided he was stone drunk, the composer had looked around the bar and picked the first girl he could find who _didn't_ remind him of the brunette he had left behind.

A blonde, blue-eyed girl named Lanette. Although according to her, Erik could call her whatever he wanted—for a price, of course. At that moment Erik hadn't cared, he simply wanted female company. And so he had taken her back with him to his rooms, and enjoyed his fill of her.

Finding himself back in the present day, Erik cleared his throat nervously, not knowing what to do in this situation. In the past, Erik had always found comfort in a woman against an alley wall, far from wherever he was residing.

Confused by his nervousness, the girl tried once more to reach out for him, only for Erik to growl under his breath, his comfort zone unwelcomingly breached, as he grab her wrist.

"No," Erik said threateningly, squeezing her wrist for only a second to emphasize his point. Gulping nervously, the blonde backed away and slipped out of the bed, her nakedness emphasized by the moonlight. At once, Erik's appetite for this woman grew again. _He would forget her._

"Come." Erik's voice transformed once again: this time gentle, soothing and _seductive_, the girl automatically forgot her fears from moments ago, and approached the masked man, smiling. Pushing Erik back down onto the bed, the blonde woman straddled the man's hips and Erik closed his eyes peacefully, trying once more to forget, while at the same time envisioning Miss Christine Daae as the woman before him…

_He would try to forget her once again._

…

Frustrated at his disgusting activities for the past sixty hours, Erik leaned his head forward onto his hands, trying to remain calm, as the blonde woman—he had refused to call the _whore_ by her given name—shrieked, trying to contain herself in a corner of the hotel room that would allow the most amount of space between herself and the _now unmasked_ man.

"_Mademoiselle_, please. I don't mean you any harm. This is an unfortunate birth mark, and I _did_ in fact ask you to not remove my mask at anytime," Erik said, while attempting to refrain from striding across the room and choking the prostitute to silence. Normally those who had glimpsed his face by now were clients who were killed instantly afterward, or accidental observers—like for example Christine.

_Christine Daae_. The sweet woman who had told him point blank that she had no care of his face, but instead of _him_. She, in fact after seeing his face, _loved_ him—a feat that not even his own mother could do. Silently, Erik asked himself why he had forced himself to run away to Amsterdam, when he remembered his reasoning: the only way he could protect Christine was by not being near her. He was too dangerous of an eccentric to be trusted with a woman as loving and beautiful as the brown-haired siren.

_But was this life worth it?_

By now the blonde prostitute was still blubbering. Erik looked up to glare at her, only for Lanette to begin shrieking once again as she shielded her eyes. "H-how could anyone…Please h-have m-mercy on me, Sir! I d-don't want t-to go to Hell! I'll ch-change my life, please! Just pay me my w-wage and let me leave!"

Muttering under his breath about 'classless whores' and 'no respect', Erik grabbed the white mask that had been abandoned in the middle of the bed, and after securing it firmly in place, began to cover his own nakedness with the comforter. Getting up, he ignored the girl's terrified shriek, and went over to the desk. Pulling out a drawer, Erik took out an envelope and, after removing several bills, placed it on top of the desk before turning to face the blonde woman.

"I am now going to take a shower. When I have finished, I expect you to have taken the envelope I have placed here and be gone, and that there will be no evidence remaining of your presence. This portion of your 'wage', as you call it," he raised the money up in emphasis, "is being returned to me because of your lack of discretion, and also for not following orders."

He turned to enjoy a few moments of peace in the bathroom, before pausing and looking at her once more. "And may I also suggest in the future, if you do continue this…choice of trade, that you don't disrespect instructions and pull away from a client, _before_ he's been granted his release. If you were as much of an expert as you bragged our first night together, you wouldn't have lost this portion."

Slamming the door in annoyance, Erik waited for a moment and, after hearing the scurrying of feet and a door slamming, turned on the private shower and stepped in.

"Oh, Christine… If only you knew…" Erik trailed off, unable to even describe to himself his embarrassment. He had cheated on a woman he had loved—even if they had not agreed on being in a relationship as of yet, even something like _this_ was low. He would have to contact Antoinette after all. It seems as though his little getaway in Amsterdam was over.

…

As Antoinette continued hurriedly packing for her trip to New York, Meg came bounding into her mother's bedroom, Blackberry mobile in hand. The past week and a half had been tiresome for the _Madame_: persuading the council to _not_ send other assassins after the missing composer, while appealing for permission to fly out to New York. Even the head of the Organization had someone to answer to.

Newspapers had caught wind of the continuous killings, and as a result, Christine Daae's name was printed on every front page since Andre had come begging for help.

"_Maman_, this email just got sent to your account-thought it was important since it was from the Scouting Department and-" Her daughter's rambling was cut short as Antoinette snatched the Blackberry from the young Giry and began to skim the message rather quickly.

"_Amsterdam?_ Of all the foolish… Disrespectful..." Antoinette voice began to lower in volume until finally she trailed off into silence, her anger causing her lack of speech.

"I know you're still angry with me, _Maman_, but is that by chance where _Monsieur_ Destler is?" The question may have sounded innocent coming from Meg Giry, but Antoinette knew her daughter quite well.

"Little one, I need you to do three things for me. I need you to call up Alastair and tell him to have the boat ready in five minutes. Then I need my flight to New York cancelled, and I need you to alert the pilot that there will be a change in destination. Finally, I need you to tell _no one_, not even Christine. No texting either. No bending the rules, and trying to 'help' the poor girl. This may in fact _actually _help keep Christine safe, alright?" Meg nodded in earnest, always ready to help her adopted sister.

"So if you're not going to New York, does that mean..."

Antoinette paused in her packing, giving her daughter a grim look. "_Oui_, little one. It's time to bring home _Monsieur_ Erik Destler from Amsterdam. He's realized that he's had too long of a vacation." 

… 

Erik waited patiently by the entrance of Schiphol Airport, watching for the appearance of the elderly woman. Assuming that Antoinette was indeed at the Organization, he could easily assume that the next private flight in from Benbecula would be hers. It had been approximately four hours since he had purposefully billed the hotel room onto an easily-traced credit card, and it was only a two and a half hour flight without layovers after the hour boat ride from the Outer Hebrides Islands, where the Organization's headquarters was safely hidden.

And there she was. Grim and tired looking, Erik assumed from the amount of baggage she had in hand, that Antoinette was planning on traveling somewhere else after her short pit-stop here in the Netherlands. Now was as good a time as any to let his presence be known.

"Antoinette." Erik greeted her shortly, appearing by her side exactly how he had been trained. After receiving a short nod in response, Erik smirked. "So I supposed you're here to beg me back, hmm?"

He was greeted with a quick slap on the cheek.

"The cheek of you, sometimes, Erik," Antoinette said shortly, before thrusting her luggage in his direction. "I'm actually here to drag your _sorry ass_ back to New York, whether you like it or not. Because of you, I have to fly out to New York and clean up the mess you've left behind. Now, you are going to go back to your hotel, pack your belongings and get on the next flight with me—I've paid enough in private airfare for one day, and I'll be damned if you're not paying me back every cent."

The _Madame_'s old French accent seemed to gain strength from her brusque way of giving directions, and Erik reminded himself why he had actually followed Antoinette's orders in the past.

"Ironically enough, _Madame_," he said mockingly, ignoring the older woman's fierce glare, "I am already prepared to leave Amsterdam. Nothing is keeping me here, and I'm ready to return to New York to complete my assignment."

Antoinette looked at him in amazement. _Has he not seen the news?_ "Tell me, Erik, what was it that I made you promise me _before_ I even considered taking you as my pupil?"

Erik sighed, knowing the routine of this lecture. "To never leave a partner behind, ma'am. But I think you underestimate Christine Daae, Antoinette. She's more than capable of handling this job herself. She _does_ have the _fop_ there to hold her hand along the way."

Antoinette wished that she could just step back onto the safety of the private jet and leave him forever trapped in Amsterdam. _Damn this neutral territory._

"Erik Destler, stop acting like a five-year-old this instant!" Antoinette hissed angrily as people were starting to look their way—they were attracting far too much attention. "What do you _really _know about Raoul de Chagny? Do you even know why Christine went through with her decisions?"

Erik snorted. "The _recently engaged _Christine Daae is able to handle her own emotions, and from what Andre and Firmin have told me, she has been quite successful, and Raoul—"

Antoinette lost any sense of dignity, as she lost her temper. "_Raoul de Chagny is gay, Erik! _How blind can you be? She is tying herself to her best friend _because_ the man she has been in love with has constantly hurt her! And that would be _you_! I warned you to have a care with her, and that she was to become your _permanent partner _in all long term assignments, and _still_ you didn't take the hint!"

Erik tuned out of her lecture after her first statement. _Raoul de Chagny was gay?_ How did he miss that? Sure, the blonde _fop_ had almost tried to purposefully get a rise out of him, but was that because he was trying to be flirtatious? Is that why, when Erik had snapped at Christine about "_her lover"_, she hadn't become defensive because she didn't actually have one?

"—Erik, are you even listening to me?!"

"Gay?" That was all Erik could manage.

"What? Erik, have you not heard me say that—"

"_Raoul_, Christine Daae's fiancé, is _gay_?"

"Well, yes, I thought you would have known! He did work with you on that one assignment, and even Christine knows that he seems to have held some… affection for you since that time…"

Erik looked at Antoinette stupidly for a moment, before stark realization sank in. "Oh, bloody hell, I've made a mess, haven't I?..." Erik muttered more to himself than to Antoinette.

"Yes you have, which is what I've been trying to tell you!" The older woman exclaimed, checking her watch. "We need to get on the next flight in forty minutes in order to make it back for tonight's performance." Antoinette paused as she looked at Erik mockingly. "I'm sure now that you're done being a _right prat_, you would prefer to be there when Christine performs, _non_?"

Erik nodded vigorously, as he was about to escort Antoinette back inside the terminal, and then paused.

Antoinette sighed in annoyance. "What _now_?" The _Madame_ demanded to know. With less than an hour to buy any last minute tickets, Antoinette could barely understand _why _Erik would want to wait a second longer.

Erik hesitated. _Would it be worth buying anything now?_ Erik supposed not, as they hurried into the terminal. He would have to wait until they returned to New York.

They had a performance to catch.

…

Antoinette urged herself to not smack the masked assassin a few times when she realized how long of a flight this was actually going to be, while trying to placate the other passengers in business class that the man seated next to her was certainly _not_ going insane.

"What do you _mean_ someone has stolen her folders?" the composer howled. "Was she not being careful? Who is doing this to her?"

"Keep your voice down, Erik!" Antoinette hissed in embarrassment. If they're cover was blown, Erik would surely pay. She waited until the composer's erratic breathing had slowed considerably. "Have you not been keeping an eye on the news?"

Erik shook his head before speaking; his voice volumes lower than it had been before. "How many bodies?" Internally, Erik berated himself for leaving so quickly before thinking about his partner's safety. _How was it that he always ended up hurting her the most?_ If he had not left, Erik was sure that after the first victim he could have tracked down the sick bastard.

"Elven, beginning on the day you left," Antoinette said pointedly, knowing how ashamed the composer was feeling. Erik winced in response, before writing down notes on a beverage napkin.

"I think if I can get access to one of the bodies, and compare it to the one opening night, then I'll be able to identify the killer. Then I'll work next on determining a pattern and-"

"Erik, there is no need for all of this," Antoinette said slowly, slowly wondering if she was about to say the right thing. "I have a theory on who the killer may be. However, I would prefer if Christine does not yet know…" Antoinette trailed off seeing that she had gained Erik's attention once more. "But perhaps I should assign this to someone outside of the assignment? I don't know if this would be the best of ideas, and I-"

Erik cut her off, his muscles coiled so tightly from the tension in his body, that Antoinette knew she had made the wrong decision. "Tell me who it is." The chilly tone in his voice sending the hairs on Antoinette's arms straight up.

"We believe it may be Bouquet out on the hunt." Erik froze at the sound of his enemy's name.

"You told me he was dead, Antoinette. Dead in a fire," Erik hissed loudly, as the passengers seated before them turned to look back in shock. Antoinette glared at the assassin.

"Well, I apparently misjudged the past situation, didn't I?" Antoinette snapped. "Besides, he wouldn't be out to trouble you—he knows the vendetta you hold against him. I believe this rather personal call is for Christine. Some sick version of sending her roses," Antoinette said quietly, although more to herself.

"If Bouquet thinks he can get to me through Christine, he is a dead man. He is not going to harm the woman I love just to mess with my head," Erik growled, his hands clenched into fists.

Antoinette studied him for a moment, eyes wide, before quietly responding. "Erik, I don't think he's back for you whatsoever. When I said that he was after Christine, I was serious…You didn't know that they were once lovers?"

Erik chose to not respond, instead turning to stare out of the window in silence. However, his mind was in turmoil at the idea of his beloved Christine and that man ever together in the first place.

_What have you been hiding from me, Christine?_

…

Christine Daae sighed heavily as she found herself backstage once more, seriously wondering whether she _should_ retire from public life after this assignment. This was now the fourth performance since the first body had been discovered in her dressing room, but that certainly hadn't been the only one. Everyday since then, news channels were airing new footage of more victims piling up from this new serial killer, with one new body found each day.

According to reporters, similar gift tags had been found addressed to the opera singer Christine Daae, and more people were attending the opera performances in order to see the victimized soprano, while gossiping about the composer's disappearance. _Could he be the serial killer?_

Christine's thoughts were broken as she realized that the dreaded moment was here: Act Two Scene Three, otherwise known as the love duet between Don Juan and Aminta. Michael was a brilliant baritone, but he just didn't have that spark that resonated with her—there was no chemistry between them, and so it was nothing but going about business for Christine. If only Erik…

_Stop thinking about that man!_

Closing her eyes for a moment, Christine brushed her worries concerning Erik away, slid into character, and stepped onstage.

"_No thoughts within her head_

_But thoughts of joy._

_No dreams within her heart_

_But dreams of love!"_

Making her way to sit on the stage floor, as she smelled the bouquet of flowers in her basket, and gazed out into the house dreamily.

"_Passarino, go away _

_For the trap is set,_

_And waits for its prey."_

Mentally, Christine waited for Michael to continue, but she froze the moment she heard _his_ voice instead.

"_You have come here_

_In pursuit of your deepest urge._

_In pursuit of that wish which till now_

_Has been silent. Silent…"_

He was back.


	18. Chapter Seventeen

_Hello there, _

_For all of you who have reviewed so far, thank you so much! I'm so happy that you enjoyed my little spin in the past chapter—I spent quite a few days deliberating on how I would want Chapter Sixteen to occur with Erik in Amsterdam, and I knew that the Erik in my mind wasn't perfect, he was human. So I went with that. _

_A few of you have private messaged me asking if the Organization is headquartered in Scotland, and my answer is yes. The Organization's building is actually out on the unnamed island west of the Isle of Skye. The only way to get to and from that island is by boat, and only one boat is allowed to travel between these two landmasses._

_For those who have asked me, and also begged, for this story to not end soon, all I have to say is this: do not fear, for am I rather good at lengthy writing, and not half-assing. I would never end this story so quickly. _

_Now, for those of you who were originally T rated fans, be warned: there is a rape mentioned in this chapter, but not thoroughly described and I will put asterisks in bold (*******) before and after that segment, and also any other citrusiness in this fanfic. You have been warned, so please don't leave any hate comments. _

_Ever yours, _

_**Soprano in Shadow**_

* * *

><p>Christine watched, breathless, as the composer prowled towards her, his eyes smoldering, as though ready to pounce. Every inch of her skin had prickled into goose bumps, and those who were seated in the first two rows could probably hear the unevenness of her breath. As he held his hand out for her to take, her body trembled at the thought of sharing physical contact with him after a week and a half. She hesitated for a moment. And then their hands touched.<p>

_He was back_.

To Christine, that was all that mattered. It didn't matter that Erik Destler had to prompt Christine in moving to her respective places during the specific phrases he was singing, and it didn't matter that murmurs were rising from the audience as they watched the normally composed and perfect Christine Daae _make mistakes_. All that mattered was that he had come back. After the horrors of these past several days, hearing his voice alone soothed all of her worries.

Utter silence flooded the stage, and Christine realized that she had missed her entrance, and Monsieur Reyers was watching for her signal. Looking out into the audience, and then back to Erik's encouraging expression, Christine knew that she should continue the duet…Except she could no longer hold back. Not with the chance of Erik leaving her once again.

"I love you." The audience gasped as Christine broke the silence with those three words. Never in the history of this opera theater had the fourth wall been broken between the stage and the audience. _History itself was in the making!_

Erik watched her steadily, and Christine wasn't sure if it was in anger for ruining his opera, or for another reason entirely. However what he did next went beyond what she had expected.

"_Say you'll share with me_

_one love, one lifetime. _

_Lead me, save me from my solitude._

_Say you want me with you_

_here, beside you._

_Anywhere you go, let me go too._

_Christine, that's all I ask of you!"_

Instead of continuing the opera, as Christine Daae had expected, she had not expected him to add in her name to Don Juan's declaration of love.

_He was back, and he loved _her.

Nor did she expect to see Erik Destler looking up at her a moment later, as he dropped down to one knee.

Christine barely registered dropping down onto her own knees in order to hide her face within the breast of the man she loved, tears falling from her eyes.

_He was back, he loved her and he had just proposed_.

The audience stood to its feet, and the members of the opera came onstage, all applauding and roaring their approval. Erik looked down at his new fiancée, smiling warmly as she peeked up at him from her hiding place. Helping Christine up to her feet, the couple blushed at their performance, and bowed together, acknowledging the house.

The tinkling sound of a champagne flute caught the attention of the audience and cast, as all turned up to look at one of the opera boxes. The opera box held the Vicomte Raoul de Chagny, and in his hand was the champagne flute. Quiet whispers began as the audience began to remember that Christine was otherwise engaged to the Vicomte.

That is, until he delivered a short bow to the couple. Erik, in response, gave the blond man a stiff nod in response.

"Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention? If you could all raise your glasses, I would like to make a toast!" The Vicomte announced. Instantly the doors of the opera house opened with a sudden bang, as waiters filed in, each holding a tray of filled champagne flutes, and delivering them to their guests efficiently.

Waiting a moment longer, Raoul raised his glass toward the couple. "To my dearest Erik," the composer cringed at the Vicomte's term of endearment, "may you always keep Christine happy, and may the two of you always find joy in your life together. To my darling Chrisitne, I love you. You will always be my truest, and closest friend. I'm so happy that you've found someone stubborn enough to deal with you." A light ripple of laughter broke from the audience, as each guest had their glass raised. "To Erik and Christine!"

"To Erik and Christine!"

Christine turned to look at her newly announced fiancé in surprise. "Did you arrange all of this?"

Erik shrugged. "I arrived at the opera house a little before seven, and since I didn't have much to do, I contacted Raoul and Michael. They both helped with keeping my presence this evening quiet until the appropriate time."

Christine studied the masked composer for a moment before reaching up on tip-toe and meeting his lips with her own. Instinctively, Erik's arms wrapped around the soprano's waist, before moving away and cutting the kiss brief, much to the brunette's dismay.

"Friends, guests and fellow opera lovers," Erik began, "we regret to inform you that tonight's performance has been cancelled due to these… current events." The composer was rewarded with light laughter at _that _remark. "If you could please go to the main ticketing office, there are agents available who will be willing to either refund tonight's performance, or allow you to select a different performance night. Thank you so much, and have a wonderful evening!"

Applause filled the house once more, as the newly engaged couple took a second bow before heading offstage. Immediately cast and crew from the opera began to crowd Erik and Christine, offering their congratulations.

However Erik seemed to have other plans—his time for being pleasant was finished. Growling under his breath, Erik took a firm hold of his leading lady's hand, and began to walk briskly trying to avoid any more publicity for the day.

"Erik, be nice," Christine hissed. "They're only wishing us well—you don't have to get grumpy again." The composer's only response was a noncommittal grunt, as they left the backstage area and arrived at the back doors.

Taking a peek out of the back door, Erik's face was blinded by light from photographers. Cursing under his breath, Erik slammed the door shut.

"Damn reporters!" The composer snarled. Christine was taken aback. Why was Erik in such a terrible mood? Was it something she had said or done earlier?

"Erik, wh-" Erik cut the brunette off with an abrupt kiss, one that made the soprano's knees feel like they were melting into jelly. A moment later, Christine found herself in a town car with her fiancé, the tinted windows almost black from the inside.

_No, this isn't right_…

Realization struck her—the kiss had been a tool for distraction, in order to slip a pair of sunglasses on her face! Annoyed at the composer's brusque manner, Christine punched her fiancé's bicep.

"What was that for? You couldn't have just said, 'hold on, we have to deal with reporters'? If you didn't want anyone to know we were engaged, then you probably shouldn't have proposed in front of an entire audience!"

Still Erik Destler refused to speak to her, much less looking at her. _What was going on?_

"Driver, stop here. I'm getting out."

The driver began to slow down, when the man sitting next to her barked out, "Driver, carry on."

"Driver, stop!"

"Driver, don't listen to her."

"Driver, pull over and let me get out."

Nervously, the driver began to pull to the curb—he wasn't going to put up with this couple, no matter the cost when, in a flash, the cold muzzle of a gun met the back of his head.

"Driver, keep going, or I swear I'll pull the trigger. I am _not_ a happy man today, and I'm more than willing to overcompensate you for your trouble." Weakly, the driver nodded and rejoined the remainder of the night traffic—just as quickly as it had appeared, the gun was gone, hidden once more in the Don Juan costume.

This had gone too far. "Erik, what is wrong with you? You can't just pull a gun on a driver! How cou-"

"Just shut up, Miss Daae! I don't want to hear one word from you until we've sorted some things out." Obediently Christine kept quiet, not knowing why the eccentric composer was in such a murderous rage.

Minutes passed, and Christine realized that the driver was pulling up at the curb of Antoinette's apartment building. Silently, Erik handed over three one hundred dollar bills—a two hundred and fifty dollar tip for silence.

As they rode the elevator quietly, Christine watched her quiet fiancé out of the corner of her eye. She had never seen him look so pale. Was he shaking in anger? Why were his hands balling up in fists?

The ride up was fast, and the walk to the front door was even faster. Silently, Christine moved forward to unlock it, only for the door to open from the inside by Antoinette.

"Antoinette! You're here, oh thank goodness!" Forgetting her fiancé momentarily, Christine rushed into her adoptive mother's arms.

Only for Christine to be pulled out of the older woman's grasp by her fiancé, as Erik half-pulled, half-dragged Christine away to his bedroom, suitcase in hand.

Along the way, Andre and Firmin craned their necks down the hallway, as they watched from the kitchen.

"Now, children, don't fight _too _much! Press conference tomorrow afternoon, darlings!" Firmin called out happily in a sing-song voice, while Andre watched the scene, a concerned expression on his face.

Grunting, Erik swung the light soprano into his room before tossing his suitcase over by the bed, and locked his bedroom door. Instantly, Christine drew out a long needle that she always kept hidden in her clothes and crouched into a defensive position.

"What's going on, Erik? Why all of this rough handling? Why are you acting like this?" Christine asked, demanding to know her fiancé's intentions. Walking over to his suitcase, Erik unzipped it, pulling clothes out and reorganizing them in drawers, ignoring her.

Christine had had it. She had not just experienced one of the happiest moments of her life, just for it to be ruined. Moving forward, she flicked her wrist and sent the needle flying. Only for it to firmly drive itself into a framed photo that Erik had suddenly brought up as a shield out of nowhere.

Christine squinted at the couple in the frame for a moment, before realization dawned on her. She crumpled to the floor, as she felt her heartbeat thump away uncontrollably. She felt as though she were drowning, as though she couldn't breathe. _How had he found out?_

"I want to know, Christine Daae, if you're a double agent. Exactly _who are you_, and _what_ do you know about this man, Joseph Bouquet?" Erik growled, as Christine's eyes widened in fear. This was not how tonight was supposed to go at all. What had happened to their earlier happiness?

"Erik, please. Let me explain-" Christine's plea was ignored, as Erik hurled the picture frame through the air. Breaking against the wall, the picture lay undamaged, as splintered wood, and broken glass painted its own picture on the carpet. Stomping over to the photo, Erik snatched it, and shoved it harshly in her face.

"_Where is he? He took away a year of my life! Where the fuck is he!_" Erik shouted, demanding to get whatever information he could from the girl before him. In his mind, it no longer mattered to him what happened to this person sitting before him—he wanted justice to be served, and he wanted revenge.

Christine cowered away from the picture, closing her eyes away from the happy and smiling couple. That was another time, and another place. She had done so well with forgetting about _him_.

Banging on the bedroom door distracted Erik for a moment, but that was all that she needed. Christine rolled away from her interrogator and leaped up, only for Erik to block her path.

"Erik Destler! What are you doing in there! If I find one hair on her harmed-" Antoinette's angry voice caused the composer to wince.

"_You are going nowhere until you give me answers_!" Erik growled quietly to the younger woman, who nodded in reluctance. "I won't harm the _silly bitch_, Antoinette! I just want to know where _he _is!" _This_ was not the Erik she knew—he didn't even know who she was!

"Erik! You need to calm down. This isn't like you at all!" Christine exclaimed, as the composer began to back her into a corner.

"_Tell me where he is, _little girl, _and I promise I won't harm you,_" Erik said tauntingly, his golden eyes glinting darkly. Christine shuddered, as she tried once more to forget the images of the past.

"_Tell me!"_ He shouted at her again. His voice triggered something.

She failed.

Screaming, Christine collapsed to the floor, unable to suppress the memories that had haunted her for the past three years.

It was her scream that snapped Erik out of his bloodlust.

"Christine?" He seemed confused, as though he wasn't sure what had just happened. Looking down at the trembling girl, Erik harshly reprimanded himself, as he scooped the girl up, and laid her down on his bed. "What have I done, forgive me, _mon ange_." Humming from the opera Erik ran his fingers through her hair until finally, her heartbeat began to slow down, and her breathing returned to normal.

"E-Erik?" Christine's timid voice nearly broke the composer's heart. _How could he have done this to her?_

"It's alright, love. That monster is gone. You're alright," Erik said softly, trying his best to soothe his broken girl. "I'm sorry you had to see that…this is why I left. I didn't want you to see this side of me, ever. Forgive me?"

Hesitantly, Christine nodded, as she stared up into his eyes and saw the truth behind his words. He had never meant to hurt her, but his bloodlust had gained control. She had seen these warning signs before, and she knew what would happen along that road.

"Erik, I-I'm willing to forgive you if you promise to do something for me. I need you to promise me that after this assignment, you'll retire. Otherwise, I won't marry you until you do."

Erik was silent, before he turned away for a moment and spoke. "I need to know what happened in that photo."

Christine closed her eyes and swallowed. "I need you to promise me-"

"_Tell me about the photo first!_" Erik snapped, causing Christine to flinch once again. He reined himself in. "I'm sorry. I'm trying to stay in control. I promised. Please, tell me, Christine," he said quietly.

Nodding, Christine opened her eyes as she licked her lips. They were in for a long evening.

"Well, everything began after the death of my mother—she died when I was six, as I've mentioned before, and I was told that she had been killed in a car accident. I later found out from Antoinette that she had actually died during a mission. She had been tortured by a then rival organization, and when she refused to divulge any information, they killed her… we didn't even have her body to bury—they had thrown her body into the sea, according to a spy the Organization and planted long ago. Her coffin is empty. We buried an empty coffin, and the fact that we couldn't even give her a proper burial broke my papa's heart," Christine said sadly. "That very day, I vowed that I would do anything to make my papa smile again."

Erik raised his brow, curious. "So you trained?"

Christine nodded. "Apparently I was the fifth in a line of prodigies. From what I understand, you were the third, and before me was-"

"Joseph Bouquet," Erik said flatly, remembering the thin young man.

"Correct. Well, since forever, Joseph was always Joe to me, and before my mother's death, when he wasn't training, he would be playing with Raoul and me (although, if you think about a nine year old boy playing with two four year olds, it was more like babysitting). About a year before my mother died, Joseph, reaching the age of ten, was sent to headquarters against his will in order to begin the more grueling process with kids who were at least five years older. That was the last time I would see him for ten years. The ten years following my mother's death, I trained hard. Since Antoinette had taken me in for the first three years after the funeral, I was taught personally with her daughter, Meg, which is how we've become so close. By the time I was ten, I was even a match for Antoinette herself, and so every year from then on, I was sent around the world to train with the best there were.

"Once Raoul caught up to my level, he became my sparring partner, and we grew close once again. After those nine years were up, I was sent back home to my father, who I hadn't seen in so long…I remember the first time he saw me, he called me by my mother's name, because I had grown to look so like her. He was proud of what I had accomplished, and offered to become my mentor and my instructor for the remainder of my training—this was a year before I was to become a fully-fledged assassin, and would receive my tattoo.

"When I found out that Joseph was also going to join our training sessions, I was elated. I was amazed at the man I saw, and I developed a crush. He was the older kid who watched out for me, and he had come back looking devastatingly handsome. Yet, he was the same Joe I had grown up with, and maybe it was just because I already felt so comfortable with him, but during that year of training, we fell in love. It was a young love, more like a year long summer romance that could have one day developed into something more. But for me, that was enough. He reminded me of a simpler time, before my mother had been killed…

"We would train together, walk together, we would do everything together. And when he kissed me, I would feel butterflies in my stomach. But then everything went horribly wrong."

Christine began to tremble once again, and Erik squeezed her hand in reassurance.

"I found out later from Antoinette that his training was a farce. My father had been assigned to watch over Joe because something was terribly wrong with him. I learned later that it was a condition called acute situational mania, or as we know it, bloodlust. It causes the mind to seek out and cause offensive provocation instead of defensive provocation, which is obviously the Organization's initiative. It boiled down to this: after the past five years, when he had reached his twenty-first birthday, Joe began to steadily develop this condition. You know how Antoinette says that everyone must have their one pillar of strength?" Erik shook his head in response—he had never heard about this before. "Well, for me, it's performing, for you it's composing, for my parents it was each other, and so on. Well, while he was isolated from his friends, Joe didn't have a pillar, or anything to turn to. He wasn't talented in anything else—just killing. And the amount of assignments we start off with… well the first kill on our sixteenth birthday alone could drive any of us mad. That is the reason why we have counselors at hand twenty-four hours a day.

"Sure, when I saw Joe, and when I was with him, he was his normal self. However, I also found out through research, that when he wasn't with me, he became violent. When he turned twenty-one, about a month before I turned sixteen, he approached my father. Joe, in his growing bloodlust, had taken out enough short-term assignments, that he could retire right then and there, get married and live a _very_ comfortable life.

"There was just one problem: he wanted to marry me. He had tried to form me into his pillar, but by then it was too late. Looking back, I'm sure Antoinette and my father could have handled this better, but back then today's procedures hadn't been designed yet. He asked my father for his permission to marry me and my father, afraid of what he might turn into in the coming years, turned him down flat. Joe begged him, saying that he could save me from ever having to get my hands stained, that he would always make me happy above all else, but my father refused. He said that if Joe could persuade me by the end of the week to _not_ go on my first assignment, then he would think about it, knowing that I was too stubborn to change. But Joe still tried. He tried to corner me by saying that if I loved him, and wanted to marry him, I would refuse the assignment. But who would want to get married at my age? I had been training my whole life in order to protect those I loved, and to make my father proud, and in saying no, I thought I was protecting Joe.

"But I was wrong. Joe disappeared and requested a transfer and also a few short-term assignments. But I didn't worry about him. I went on with my training, and on the night of my birthday, Antoinette took me to the Organization's tattoo artist, and I received both my rose and my mission. The client was a quick kill, and upon passing, I went home to celebrate with my father.

"However, when I arrived home, I couldn't find him. I finally found him in the basement, tied to a chair, with Joseph waiting for me to get home. He knocked me out, and when I regained consciousness, I was on the floor with my hands duct taped tightly together and my feet were spread apart and somehow pinned to the floor. My clothes were gone, and the only thing I could see was my dad, who smelled weird, crying, asking for me to forgive him. But I didn't understand why. Then Joe appeared wearing only a pair of jeans, standing next to my dad, holding a box of matches, demanding for my dad to sing me 'Happy Birthday'. He refused several times, despite being lightly tortured in front of my eyes, although the only screams that could be heard were my own. Finally listening to my pleas, papa relented. He stumbled a lot, I think he was barely conscious by then, but Joe was relentless, telling him to keep going. While my dad was still singing it, Joe had moved over to where I was splayed on the floor. My dad stopped singing as Joe started shouting at me, saying how all of this was my fault, how no one understood, and how much he loved me.

**(***)**

"T-then he made papa finish singing the rest of the birthday song, and while he was finishing, Joe, h-he took off his jeans. Papa…h-he stopped again, but Joe m-made him continue on, and when he finished singing—oh god! W-when he finished… he…." Christine had to stop, as she began sobbing, remembering that night, and almost feeling the flames on her face once again.

"He threw a match at papa's feet…and… oil…that was the smell… and flames were everywhere by the chair… and papa was… oh papa. His cries for help! And when he threw the match h-he…" Christine broke off again, this time unable to continue.

"Did he rape you, Christine?" Erik asked quietly, and sobbing, Christine nodded in response. Erik felt sick.

**(***)**

"At some point I went unconscious, and when I woke up, I was in the hospital. The flames hadn't touched me, but papa… Papa was still alive when they found him, but barely. He died before I gained consciousness with Antoinette watching over him.

"The day after that, Antoinette filed to adopt me… and ever since then I've been in therapy sessions to try and forget the past," Christine said sadly.

Erik pulled the young woman toward him, embracing her tightly—he wished that he would never have to let Christine go. "I'm so sorry I made you relive all of that, my love. If I had known-"

"But you didn't, Erik. But I need you to promise me that you won't-"

"We'll discuss that after this assignment, _mon ange_. Let's try and forget this evening after the opera ever happened. But Christine, when exactly is your birthday?"

Christine looked at the composer sadly. "December twenty-third, why?"

Erik felt his heart drop, as nausea began to overtake him. "December twenty-third was the night when Joseph Bouquet was assigned to show up as my second. He's the reason my life fell apart for almost two years."

Christine smiled softly. "Then we must have been meant to be. We, the Two Angels in the Night, must have been destined to come together."

Erik looked at her confused. "The 'Two Angels in the Night?'"

"Antoinette emailed me last night about the two of us becoming long-term partners if we stayed with the Organization. I thought that would have been a fitting name for the two of us, having gone to Hell and back," Christine explained.

Erik leaned back on the bed as Christine snuggled up to his chest, sleep beginning to claim the pair after such an emotionally draining day. "Two Angels, hmm? What a pair we are," Erik said, before dropping a kiss on top of Christine's curly brown hair, and falling into a dream filled sleep…

And in his dreams, he was killing Joseph Bouquet over and over again.

And it felt good.


	19. Chapter Eighteen

_Hello there, _

_Thank you to everyone, once again, who has reviewed! I loved hearing what you had to say, especially with that last chapter. For those of you who wish for Joseph Bouquet to receive unimaginable pain for what he did to Christine, keep in mind that he wasn't always like this—he went mad from the assignments that he took. More of Bouquet's history will be mentioned soon. As for Christine and Erik, I'm quite glad that everyone enjoyed what happened, however there were some questions of Erik's temper. This... "blood lust" as I like to call it is simply a syndrome that occurs after seeing too much, and killing too many. It doesn't happen to every member of the Organization, but it's difficult for some to remember who they are after killing so many, or even so few._

_Christine was completely right when she said that even after the first kill, it makes complete sense for one to go mad. It really just depends on if you have the sanity for the job. As for Erik—with all that he's gone through, he's been developing this bloodlust, however at a much slower rate. It seems that it began right after his major accident that was caused by Bouquet's absence. His thirst for revenge is the seed that has begun to slowly change him. Let's see what happens next, shall we?_

_Sorry for the delay, senioritis came and bit me in the behind these past few weeks, but I'm trying to fight through it!_

_Ever yours,_

_**Soprano in Shadow**_

* * *

><p>Christine awoke the next morning to the scent of peonies. However, her fiancé had disappeared at some point in the early morning hours, leaving behind several large blossoms, and a note on his pillow.<p>

_Gone to rehearsal room. Meet me there… if you can find me._

–_Erik_

Christine smiled lightly at the note and its challenge—he had known that she would worry. Christine wondered at what time he had left, when she herself was waking up at eight. _Did he sleep much at all?_

Deciding to find out for herself, Christine quickly changed into a mint colored maxi dress and ran a brush through her hair after a moment's thought; Meg had always taught her that even the smallest amount of effort on one's appearance could make a difference. And then she was out of the apartment and hailing a cab for the opera house. She had a fiancé to find. It had been a few weeks since Erik had proposed, and after the last outburst from his _blood lust_, everything had been perfect.

Well, almost perfect.

Christine watched the cab meter rise as the cab driver weaved between the lines of traffic, showing his worth at her mention of "please get there as fast as you can!" Her fingers rolled into fists as she began to breathe heavily at the thought of finding Erik once again by the piano, and what he could do to her, as her inner thighs began to quiver at the thought. _No… No! _She tried to turn that picture out of her mind—they had agreed to wait until after they were married, because of their careers—but failed. Christine trembled at the thought of feeling Erik's lips kissing and licking places she had never dared allow any client to touch; his teeth nipping her neck and collarbone, and several other places she wouldn't mind him trying his teeth out on. All he would have to do was lift her onto the piano, give her that wonderful smirk that she had always hated before and, well, _dig in_, so to speak. And right when she would be throwing her head back in ecstasy, he would…and they would…and—

"…Miss? Miss?" The cab driver's rough voice broke through her thoughts, causing her to jump at the sudden noise. "We're here, Miss," the cab driver said, as he smirked at her from his rearview mirror.

Christine gasped silently to herself as she realized that she had left herself completely open to any danger surrounding her. _And she called herself an assassin!_ Paying the cab driver, and leaving a rather hefty tip behind, Christine gathered herself as she trudged up the steps of the opera house. _Erik should be around here somewhere…_

A soft trail of music seemed to answer her thoughts, upon entering the grand foyer of the opera house, leading her to the doors of the main house. Opening the doors, Christine found what she had been looking for: her fiancé. Composing.

Sheets of composition paper littered the central area of the main stage, as Erik hunched over the keyboard of the grand piano, furiously playing, and stopping only for a few moments in order to scribble something down. Christine leaned against the door opening, smiling, as she closed her eyes, letting the music envelope her. This was nothing like the music she had heard him play before—this was filled with something different. Light? Hope? No. _Love_. All she knew was that Erik was inspired, and that was always a good sign.

The music stopped abruptly, and Christine opened her eyes to see Erik trying to peer into the darkness.

"Who's there?" The composer snapped grumpily, and Christine had to fight back a giggle before responding.

"It's only me, Erik." The composer visibly relaxed, as he sat watching his approaching fiancée. How he had attained her, Erik would never know. With all of his moods and his paranoia, Christine still loved him, and for that he was grateful. _But would she still love him if he told her about Amsterdam?_ Erik pushed away that foreboding thought, not wanting to spoil the moment.

"I see you received my note. Waking up a bit late this morning, aren't we?" Erik asked, after checking his watch and seeing the smaller hand just hitting ten.

Christine laughed. Erik would never change, and that was something the brunette was thankful for. What Christine had first seen as arrogance, she now saw as his recipe for dry humor. How had so much changed in just a few short months?

"What are you working on now, _maestro_?" Christine asked teasingly, as she leaned over from behind Erik, her arms wrapping him into a hug. He responded with a low hum, as his hands danced across the piano keys once more, replaying the music that he had been composing all morning.

Christine leaned her face against his as he carried on playing, her eyes closing once more in pleasure at the intricate harmonies of this piece. "It's beautiful, love," she murmured softly, and Erik turned away from the music for a just a moment, in order to kiss her cheek in response.

Erik stopped abruptly. "I want you to stay in New York, Christine," the composer said quietly. "After you've completed your contract with the opera house, I want you to stay. There's a concert that I would like you to perform in—I'll make sure that it's right after the opera has finished. Would you agree to that?"

Christine's eyes widened in surprise—_did Erik think that she would just leave him like that_? "Well of course, Erik. You don't even have to ask me that. Anywhere you go, I will follow, and if you want to stay here, then _we_ will." Christine paused for a moment, and straightened, before bringing up the topic that neither of them had mentioned.

"Erik?"

"Hmm?" His noncommittal response made Christine feel a little nervous, as he began making corrections to his latest composition.

"We've never talked about what would be happening after…" Christine trailed off for a moment, licking her lips. Maybe this would be too soon to bring up? They _had _only gotten engaged yesterday. There was plenty of time, wasn't there?

"After?"

"Well, after our mission is complete." Erik's hands stilled once Christine had finished her train of thought.

"Well, what would you like to have happen, _mon ange_?" Erik asked quietly, not looking up at the brunette.

"I-I… Well, I thought that we could be engaged for a while, then get married, and then settle down somewhere—England perhaps, or even here in New York? I know that I would like to become a more active singer, maybe even teach, and you will probably never stop composing…" Christine began to ramble on about her ideal life post-assignment, when Erik's voice interrupted her.

"And what about our jobs? Our lives? What about those." The chilly edge in Erik's voice froze Christine in her place. The composer looked up at her, and Christine could see a glint in his eyes that she had only seen a handful of times before. The blood lust was back.

"Erik…" Christine trailed off, unsure of what to say. He had in fact, never promised her that he would retire, but Christine had continually told herself that she wouldn't put herself through any more assignments… unless Antoinette needed her _personally_. And Christine had automatically assumed that Erik would just retire with her, and settle down. And perhaps they could start a family….

"No!" Erik's hands banged down several random keys, and Christine winced at the clash of notes. From within his blazer, Erik drew out a gun with a silencer muzzle, and after a moment of thought, aimed it right at Christine.

"Erik!" Christine felt cornered, betrayed, nauseous, and above all, Christine felt scared. _Was he going to shoot her?_ Christine did the only thing she could think of doing. She screamed. It had worked last time…

…but would it work _this_ time?

Cursing, Erik quickly closed the gap between them, as he drew the muzzle straight against her head. "Erik's not here to help you right now, _pretty_," the composer's voice snarled in her ear, but Christine knew that it was anyone _but _her gentle Erik. "Now either you stop ruining that voice of yours, or I stop you from using it permanently," Erik added, emphasizing his latter statement with a motion of his gun.

Silently, Christine nodded, hoping that no one would walk in on this scene. The last thing she needed was to try and explain _why _her fiancé was holding a gun up to her head. "May I at least sing?" Christine asked quietly—perhaps she could use her voice another way in order to gain the real Erik's attention. Instantly the voice within Erik shook its head.

"No need for that sort of garbage," Christine winced at those words, "no idea why _he_ likes it," the voice muttered. Automatically, Christine knew that the "he" the voice had mentioned was Erik. But where was he?

"Erik! I need help! You have to wake up! I know I shouldn't have mentioned after this assignment now, and I'm sorry. But please, Erik!" Christine's sudden outburst caused the masked man to flinch back, and in a blinded moment of retaliation, Erik slammed the barrel of the gun against Christine's temple, causing the brunette to instantly fall to the ground, unconscious.

A moment of silence passed.

"Christine? Are you alright? Christine!" Erik's worried voice couldn't reach through to the unconscious girl. Looking down, he realized that there was a gun in his hand. His gun. _When had that been taken out?_ Horror washed onto his face in realization of what had happened.

"Oh Christine, what have I done?"

…

Christine woke to find a masked man peering closely into her face. With a shriek, Christine scrambled away frantically from Erik, determined to not get hit again. Christine felt so weak—_what had happened to all of her training?_

"Christine, don't run away…please…I'm sorry! I would never try to harm you purposefully," Erik said desperately, as Christine studied him for a moment. "I would only want for your happiness, and-" Erik was cut short as Christine's lips were firmly upon his own. Relieved, Erik feasted hungrily, as if trying to explain what had happened through kisses.

Christine pulled away. "Erik, I need you to tell me what you remember last," Christine said. As if sensing Erik's desire to argue, she added, "I know you don't understand, but this is important. We need to figure this out."

Nodding, Erik drew in a breath. "You were talking about what you wanted to do after this assignment, and a moment later, you were unconscious. But…why?" However, Christine ignored him. Muttering to herself, Christine gathered up the composition sheets, hurriedly, before turning to look once more at her fiancé. He was sick, and he needed help.

"Let's go, Erik. We need to go back home. Now." Christine's tone was serious, and left no room for argument. Erik's eyes flashed dangerously for a moment, then returned to normal at the sight of seeing Christine flinch.

"Come on, Erik. Please." After hesitating for a moment Erik nodded, and the two of them left the opera house and hailed a cab

…

Antoinette frowned at the sight of the couple standing outside of her apartment, her coffee mug in hand.

"You two were out early. Clients?" Christine shook her head, and prodded the confused composer forward.

"Erik, why don't you go back to your room, and I'll be there in a bit. I… just need to have a chat with Antoinette first."

Numbly, Erik nodded and left for the solace of his room, still in shock of what he had almost done. Antoinette raised her eyebrows in interest—what had happened that could cause the pair of them to act like this?

_Unless… _Antoinette paled. "You're not… pregnant, are you?" Flustered, Christine shook her head adamantly.

"W-we haven't even…" Christine trailed off, and Antoinette nodded in understanding. So if it wasn't that, then what could it be?

Christine inhaled and prepared herself for what she would have to say, and the worst possible outcome: execution. "Erik is… sick," she explained weakly, finishing lamely, and Antoinette blinked slowly at the young woman's words.

"Well if that's it, then just take him to the hospital. Although I'm surprised—Erik has never been sick in all his time as a member of the Organization," Antoinette said shortly, before leaving for her own private chambers. She had a telephone conference with the council members, and there was no way she could present anything _but_ positive results.

"_Madame_," Antoinette froze in her tracks, the hairs on her skin raised; Christine _never_ addressed her as such, and when she did, Antoinette had a feeling that it would be serious. "He's _really_ sick. As in 'Joseph Bouquet' sick." Antoinette strode back to Christine in an instant, her skin paled by the mention of Bouquet.

"Are you sure?" Antoinette asked, her mind trying to quickly assess the situation for a plausible solution.

Christine nodded. "This is the second time he has almost harmed me, so I'm assuming that music must be his pillar of strength, and I'm positive that he carries the same symptoms. I have studied Bouquet's file extensively, and I know every intimate detail in there."

Antoinette was silent for a moment, before taking her phone out and dialing a number. "Megan, I need you to pull out the black folder in the bottom drawer of my desk… Yes, _that_ folder, little one. I need you to call the number that you find in that folder… _Yes_, Megan, I'm serious." Christine could hear her adopted sister's voice becoming more frantic. "Yes, Christine is fine… No, you _may not_ take a plane to get here… Alright, you can talk to Christine, but make it quick. You know what to do afterward." Sighing heavily, Antoinette handed her personal mobile to Christine, before heading back to her room—she knew that Meg would ultimately do the right thing.

"Meggy?"

"Chrissy, who is _maman_ calling for?" Meg demanded to know. "It's not Erik, is it?"

Christine grew quiet at her blonde sister's words. "It is, Meggy," Christine said quietly after a moment's thought. "Can I ask… What does she want you to do, Meg?"

"She wants me to call The Doctor, Chrissy. I can't do that! Not to you!" Meg's protests fell on deaf ears, as Christine numbly looked up and stared at the door that hid her fiancé from her eyes. Christine bit her lip in thought. A faceless person who no one had ever met before, The Doctor was only known for one reason: to diagnose and then, if necessary, execute members of the Organization who were past saving.

"Meg, I need you to do me a favor. Can you text me the number, but don't call The Doc? Let me be the one to decide when to make the call. I just got him back, and I don't deserve to lose him again. Please, Meggy. Do this for me. Please."

Meg was silent for a moment, before speaking once more. "Alright, Chrissy. Just don't tell _Maman_, please. I don't want her mad at me again."

"I promise, Meg. And Meggy?"

"Yeah?"

"Thanks for having my back."


	20. Chapter Nineteen

_Hello there,_

_Apologies for my unnecessary absence: I've been busying acting as a beta, while firing out papers and discussion board responses for my classes. I've also been toying about with a few ideas for later on in the story. _

_I recently received a review that mentioned that I was flip-flopping too much and for that particular reader, it was frustrating. I can easily understand why any reader could think that, and let me explain why. _

_In my head, Erik is deep: he has more than just self-conscious issues. Let's think about this: he's had multiple surgeries, had his first love killed, he was neglected as a child by his mother and at the same time, Erik is also dealing with his problems concerning blood lust. The list goes on… Because of all of this, Erik may love Christine, but he doesn't feel as though he _deserves _her because of the darkness his life is wrapped up in. We see this a lot in the original musical and even Gaston Leroux's novel: Erik loves Christine not only for her voice, but for her innocence and purity—for him, Christine is his beacon of light. _

_While all of this is going on Christine has her own battle scars and her own ghosts. While she may give off a false wall of confidence, she's not. She feels guilt and remorse for killing her clients, and she has an anonymous secret admirer who thinks killing off her client list is like sending bouquets of roses. At the same time, she's finally realized that she's been in love with the composer Erik Destler ever since she had first performed his operas (I'm planning on writing a one-shot about this soon), and has fallen in love with the man himself. Because of her own self-confidence issues, she ran to Raoul because she needed someone who would love her. And Christine hasn't seen Raoul (her best friend) in a few years—it's been a while, and she just needed to catch up… I think everyone can readily agree that if they were in that situation, they would drop everything in order to spend time with their closest friends because of how much they missed them. _

_Finally, the genre for this work is romance/drama, which means that there is bound to be plenty of flip-flopping. Check out Erik: The Vampire Hunter—one of my favorite reads. Loads of flip-flopping, and yet a brilliant plot. This story will obviously need to be restructured one of these days, but until Winter Break comes, I won't have the time to do so. However I am planning on starting that work today through this weekend, so if you check back by Monday, I'll probably have rewritten at least the fist handful of chapters._

_I know that this is a rather lengthy author's note, however I hope that this helps a lot of readers out there understand where I'm coming from._

_Ever yours, _

_Soprano in Shadow_

* * *

><p>Erik paced the length of his bedroom, agitated; he had almost delivered a harmful blow to Christine. How could he have allowed that to happen? A voice snickered in his head, taunting him—egging him on to lose control.<p>

'_Maybe you're not as disciplined as you had earlier believed… What if all of those days meditating with the best instructors were a waste of your effort and Antoinette's money? How about you sit back, Erik, and let _me_ take control—I'm sure I could show the darling little bitch a good time.' _Erik dearly wished that he could throttle the voice that had taken up residence within his mind. He needed a way to temporarily silence his demons.

His eyes narrowed as he thought of his missing files once again. He needed—no, he _hungered_—to hunt. He needed to spill the blood of those who had no business living. Now.

_No! _Growling, Erik glowered at his reflection in the mirror, wishing that he could smash it to bits. When had he changed so drastically? Since when had he allowed the thirst to consume him like this? He racked his brain, allowing memories to flood through his mind, as he tried to focus on specific events. He wasn't even sure where, or when, to look. Erik only knew that the name of that blasted boy had set him off.

_There!_

Tucked away behind plaster, bandages and wrappings, Erik could almost _feel_ the memory of being trapped and unable to move for eighteen months becoming real once more—unable to quench the desire to kill the man who had locked away his freedom. Joseph Bouquet. Erik could feel his rage begin to rise within him once more, and the excitement began to grow within him: he would have his revenge!

"Erik?" His angel's voice reached him before the composer could even see her, and like a sedative, her melodic voice began to cool and soothe his temper. The unwelcome presence had decidedly left his mind for the moment, of which he was glad: that last thing he wanted was for her to be at its mercy…again. He would worry about that later—for now he had a fiancée to tend to.

"I'm here, angel," Erik called out in response, brushing back a nonexistent stray hair with his hand, before catching sight of his beautiful brunette. Despite the ugly past that she had shared with him a few weeks earlier she was still a force to be reckoned with; her smile and cheerful demeanor, despite the earlier incident, were utterly contagious.

"Let's go to Chelsea—I need to get away from this apartment and the boys for a while, alright?" Erik couldn't help but smile back at the way she was almost bouncing in place on her toes, her heels barely touching the ground. _How did she have so much energy?_

"Anywhere in particular, Christine?"

Christine thought for a moment, her hazel eyes sparkling in amusement at the thought of dragging the antisocial composer down blocks filled with boutiques. However, Christine knew that she could never be able coax him through hours of taxi-filled streets and curious people without feeling guilty. There _had_ to be something that they could do.

An idea popped into her head, one that sounded almost childish in her mind. But it _was_ autumn, and how much longer would she have this chance?

"So Erik," Christine began coyly, placing her hand in his, "how would you feel about grocery shopping for a pie?"

"Dean and DeLuca's always have fresh pies available—shall we check there?" Erik asked, not fully comprehending the young brunette's train of thought.

Christine grinned wickedly. "Oh no, mister, not exactly what I had in mind. What I meant was: how would you feel about grocery shopping so that we can bake some pies?"

Erik paled as thoughts of pie dough sticking in awkward areas, a face full of flour and Christine running about the apartment chasing him with a rolling pin in hand, before gulping and nodding slowly.

"It's just a little baking, right? What harm will that do?" Erik asked, mostly to himself, as Christine began to pull him towards the front door, eager to leave. Why did he feel like he was walking into a trap? Shrugging, Erik grabbed his scarf from the couch and barely managed to wrap it around his neck before Christine began to eagerly tug him out of the apartment.

This was an adventure and it would make Christine happy, Erik continually told himself. This would be a new adventure, and as a highly trained assassin, he should be more than ready for the unexpected… Besides, there couldn't be any harm in baking.

_Right?_

…

This had gone dreadfully wrong. No, no, _no_! Erik could barely believe that Christine was acting like this.

"Christine," Erik said warningly, as said brunette began to approach him slowly, "think about what you're doing. You _don't_ want to do this."

Christine smiled, a dark twinkle in her eyes as she surveyed the room. Yes, that corner would be where she would trap him. And then she would have her way and he would beg for mercy.

"Think about what you're doing. You'll regret it, Antoinette will be furious… And-Well… Let's not forget about me. Are you fully prepared to use me like this and accept the consequences?" Being unable to see where he was going, Erik nearly stumbled on a chair—there was no way he could turn his back on her. If he did, then she would, and then…disaster.

"You can't be scared of little ol' me could you, Erik? It's not like I bite…much." Christine snickered at the last words, as she took another step towards him, causing Erik in turn to move away from her yet again.

This was too much. This wasn't safe at all! What could Christine be thinking, acting irresponsible like this? Erik gulped as he realized that his back was now against the wall—there would be no escape.

"Christine-Cat-Angel… Don't do this…Please?" His pitiful attempts at asking for Christine to reconsider reached deaf ears. And that's where Erik drew the line. He refused to beg—he was a man for goodness sake! How would it look for him to plead? Even if she was making a bad decision.

"Apologize."

Erik huffed; his earlier please forgotten as he crossed his arms, turning his head to the side with his mask facing outward. He would show his fiancé that when Erik Destler did something, Erik Destler didn't apologize for it. She grinned at his defiance before moving a step closer.

"Now why would I ever do that? I would never apologize for something so utterly below me—" Erik saw white.

Christine had thrown a handful of flour at him.

He growled as he looked down at his clothes now dusted in white. He was quite sure that his face was sprinkled with just as much of the dreaded stuff. Wiping his hand free of it, Erik's eyes narrowed as he tried to brush the flour off from his sweater and failed. She could have at least thrown something else at him… but flour? Erik could already tell that it would be difficult to remove flour particles from his sweater… it was cashmere!

So perhaps he _should _have looked before putting his elbow down on the counter, on top of the squeeze bottle filled with caramel sauce. And maybe he shouldn't have laughed at her horrorstruck face as the bottle squirted caramel all over her, and her beloved cardigan. And maybe offering to spoon some of the apples out of the pie crust and onto her hair as a topping was taking it a bit too far…. No, taking it a bit too far had passed _after_ he had quickly gotten hold of all the kitchen towels, leaving her standing there gaping at him covered in a sweet and sticky mess. And then he had laughed some more… Yes, that was probably what had caused her to grab the flour in the first place.

Who knew baking could be so much fun?

Christine's laughter broke through the composer's thoughts, as she smiled in glee. "It's just a little bit of flour, Erik. No need to make such a fuss," Christine said happily, skipping back to the kitchen where she continued watching the apple pie bake. Hearing Erik grumble under his breath about his ruined sweater, before heading back to his room to change, Christine chuckled before peering inside the oven in order to check the status of their pie.

It was almost ready. A thought tickled her mind: The Doctor. _What was she going to do?_ Christine knew that Antoinette would be expecting a call from… whoever it was, before the day ended. If she didn't hear from The Doc, then Antoinette would know of her daughter's betrayal. Leaning against the counter, in fear of getting caught, Christine glanced down at the screen of her phone as she accessed the Doctor's number from her contact list, biting her lip in concentration. It would only take two minutes to call The Doctor. All she would have to do was step outside for a few minutes and make the call. In all honesty, she wasn't even quite sure _why_ she would even consider calling. Was Christine honestly considering putting her fiancé's life in danger?

Perhaps Christine could try and hold off the call—what if Erik wasn't even a danger?

Arms encircled the contemplative brunette from behind, startling the female assassin from her thoughts.

"And what is it that you're doing, hmm?" The composer mumbled huskily, nuzzling his face into her hair, and breathing in her scent deeply. His muscles began to relax, a stark contrast from Christine's, which were tensed in anticipation of, well, anything.

"I-I'm just setting a timer for the oven, so that I don't have to watch the pie baking anymore. I think there's about five or six minutes left still…the pastry doesn't look as flaky as I'd like," Christine said, recovering from her thoughts quickly. She wasn't sure which Erik this was, but as he began to draw her hair to one side, and leave quick kisses down her neck, Christine realized that she didn't care.

For the past few weeks, Christine had been so worried about unleashing his bloodlust, she hadn't even thought about the physical part of their relationship. But then again, she was an assassin who been sent on multiple seduction assignments…so really, what she had been craving was an actual, solid relationship (with someone other then Antoinette, her boys and Meg) that didn't involve just physical activities.

Closing her eyes in enjoyment, she shivered slightly at the feel of his hot breath against her neck, his hands splayed tightly against her hips. Leaning lightly against her fiancé, Christine's arms went limp, her cell phone finding itself on the counter—she would contemplate what actions to take later.

Moving further down, Erik began to kiss the top of her shoulder, fighting back a growl at the fabric in the way. Moving a hand to stroke her neck, Erik began to lower it until his fingers felt the first metal button. Undoing it, Erik used his other hand to pull the shoulder of Christine's cardigan in order to feel her skin. Repeating his pattern of kisses on her shoulder, Erik's hand continued down the line of buttons. Mentally he decided to add to their marriage contract that his angel would no longer be allowed to wear anything that involved buttons…or clasps…or ties: nothing that would cause this much standstill in his desire for her.

For all he cared, she could just wear nothing… Erik grinned wickedly at the thought of having a naked Christine with him at all times. They could just stay indoors and never leave—they _did_ have the internet after all, so they could order anything they would need online and have it delivered: groceries, clothes, movies, furniture, books, a piano, baby clothes…

Erik stiffened at his last thought—where had that come from? Erik had always known that he would never sire his own children. He had endured enough pain his whole life for at least several families, and there was no need for his own children to be as ugly as him. Besides Christine was beautiful, and so she would want to have beautiful children, right? But Erik mentally slapped himself for that thought—he _knew_ Christine, _his_ Christine, and she would never be that shallow, and would love whatever children they ever did have. So what if they _did_ have children together?

"Erik?" Christine's voice broke through his thoughts, and Erik noticed that he had in fact paused in his ministrations on her shoulder. "Is everything ok?" Christine asked, concerned at how her fiancé had suddenly stopped, his eyes far off and glazed over. _What had he been thinking about?_

Placing an apologetic kiss on her shoulder, Erik turned her around so that he could directly into her eyes. Resting his forehead against hers, he closed his eyes as he tried to focus his thoughts.

"I love you, you know that…right?" Erik nodded in response to her question. How would he bring this up to her?

"I want us…to have—I want…well…" Erik trailed off, unable to properly word his thoughts. How was he supposed to say something like this so outright? It's not as though they were cave dwellers, where this ideal was expected. He tried again. "Angel, did you ever think of…well, being a…mother?" Erik cringed, expecting to hear a sharp retort that he had no right to ask her something like that.

But none came. Instead, all Erik heard was a quiet chuckle. "Is that what you were worried about, Erik? You thought I would never want children?" Slowly Erik nodded, eyes still closed. "I think that one day after we've settled down, then yes, I think I'd like to have children: maybe two or three? But why is this coming up now?"

Opening his eyes, he saw Christine's eyes sparkle and knew what she said to be true: she wanted children too.

He chose to not respond. Instead, he drew her lips to his own, his hands finding their way to the sides of her hips once more. These kisses, however, were no longer playful, instead each grew in intensity as Christine placed one hand on his masked cheek and the other gripped within his hair. Erik froze and pulled back in alarm as his cheek lost the mask's weight, before realizing that it was Christine who had removed it.

"Christine…" Erik began weakly, unsure of how he felt unmasked in such a _public_ place. Hushing her fiancé's verbal attempts, Christine took the lead, as she began to kiss the ravaged half of his face.

"I love _this_, Erik," Christine said between kisses. "It's part of you, and it's you I love. Don't hide away from that," she said firmly, before bringing their lips together again, her arms twining around the composer's neck. Slowly, Erik's confidence returned; the baking pie became forgotten as Erik slipped Christine's sweater off, and it dropped to the floor. Leaving her in only a thin olive green tank top, and Erik placed his hands on the sides of her flat stomach.

Growing bolder, Erik moved one of his hands inward, drawing circles on her stomach, the other still holding the brunette steadily close to him. A soft gasp from Christine escaped from their continued kissing, as his hand still circled upward, until finally reaching out to cup the underside of a breast. He held his hand there for a moment, enjoying the lightweight, before moving up further and finding the part of her breast that was hidden behind the fabric of her bra.

_There!_ Slowly, Erik began to trace the area of her breast that had escaped the reach of her bra, causing the soprano to tremble at the repeated light touch. Breaking their kiss, Erik bent down to nibble lightly at the area between her shoulder and neck, causing Christine's head to tip back in enjoyment, a breathy sigh escaping her lips every once in a while.

"Erik…" Hearing his name come forth from those lips only encouraged Erik to continue his ministrations, as his hand paused from its movement, only to travel back down and under her tank top, the cloth hitching up to allow access to his hand. Feeling the taunt abdominal muscles beneath his slightly rough hands, Erik didn't think that he could ever accept an assigned seductive mission ever again. The way they were reacting to each other was chemical, and Erik wouldn't have it any other way. Was this what love could do to a man? Slowly his hand began to inch up towards her breasts once again, causing Christine to groan in impatience. Capturing her lips with his in order to silence those groans, Erik continued the slow progress of his hand, already anticipating the feel of her breast in his hand once more.

"Christine, what pie did you en—Oh!" Antoinette's alarmed voice startled the couple, and hastily separating their lips in alarm, turned to see the elder woman watching them, her eyes wide, looking between the couple, although pointedly ignoring the uncovered side of Erik's face.

Silence erupted from the kitchen, as Christine and Erik avoided looking at each other or at their boss in embarrassment, only for it to be broken a few moments later, as the pie's timer went off.

"I'll…umm…pie!" Christine said cleverly, straightening her tank top, before rushing to grab an oven mitt, rescuing the pie from the hot oven. As she placed the perfectly golden apple pie down onto the counter space, Christine felt Antoinette move closer towards her. Looking up at her adoptive mother, Christine noticed that Erik had made his presence scarce, leaving her deal with Antoinette all on her on. _Lovely._ "Antoinette," Christine began nervously, "I'm—"

"Are you being careful?" Biting her lip, Christine nodded; she had just picked up her monthly prescription for the pill. "Have the both of you sat down and set a date yet?" Antoinette asked calmly, knife in hand, as though she hadn't seen the boy she helped raise maul the daughter she had _practically_ raised.

"P-pardon?" Christine asked weakly, unsure of how to proceed.

"For the wedding, Christine. Have the two of you sat down and set the date?" Christine stared at Antoinette silently, not knowing what to say. After the almost catastrophic reaction she had received from asking what they would be doing _after_ being married, Christine didn't have the nerve to even ask about setting an actual wedding date.

"I would watch what," Antoinette searched for the right words as she sliced a piece of pie for herself, "_goes on_, until you've set a date with him. Otherwise, there may be…issues that need to be taken care of, and then Meg may be in trouble." Christine realized that Antoinette had known how her portion of the conversation with Meg had gone, and silently thanked whatever was watching them above for how calm Antoinette was being. "Set the date, Christine. Give Erik something to hold onto as his anchor, otherwise, you may in fact lose him at the end of this battle." Slowly Christine nodded in understanding, as Antoinette plated her slice and walked back toward her room.

Counting silently for a few minutes, Christine finally deemed it safe to creep past Antoinette's master bedroom to Erik's own room, relief hitting her as she heard the radio blaring in Firmin and Andre's own set of rooms.

Opening the door, Christine popped her head through the crack, catching sight of her fiancé almost instantly. He lay there on his bed, staring straight up at the ceiling, his mask once more securely in place.

"Erik, can we talk?" Christine slipped into his bedroom, walking over to sit on the edge of his bed. Rolling on his side, Erik nodded, as he reached out to run his hands through his fiancée's wild hair. "We should talk about the wedding." Erik froze at her words, his dark eyes boring into her own.

"Go ahead, Christine," Erik said quietly, not wanting to ruin the moment. Christine drew in a breath, before continuing.

"Why haven't we set a date yet?" Christine asked, watching closely for Erik's reaction. "I mean, one moment we hate each other, then we go cold…and then hot again. Then you leave to go and do God knows what, and then we're engaged. So what do we do now? Do we step backward and keep going hot and cold, or do we move forward, settle down and set a date?"

Erik froze for a moment, not really knowing what to say. He felt as though he was being cornered into making a decision. What was he supposed to say?

"I…don't know," Erik said slowly.

Christine stared hard at the composer for a moment, before shaking her head. "See, Erik, this is you making us take a step backward. Why can't we just sit down and pick a date together? Why does everything have to be, 'I don't know' with you?"

Fury rose in the belly of the composer, rising up until Erik could barely rein himself back from losing his temper. "Well, why does everything have to be 'now, now, now!' with _you_?" the composer sneered. "I mean, you throw yourself at me like a clingy little girl, and expect me to fall in love with you and marry you within the timespan of the opera—_my _opera! Then when I need to get away because I'm feeling suffocated and not used to a woman _actually wanting_ to be with me, you throw a tantrum like a spoiled little brat, and get yourself engaged to that…that little piece of shit, spoiled brat who was born with a silver spoon in his mouth, angel-eyed and twinkle-toed _fop_! Then the moment I come back, you latch back onto me, expect me to be fine with everything that has been going on around here. And then the minute I make a right move, you practically shove me off the bloody stage with pies, trying to make _me_ set the date," he bellowed, before switching to a higher voice. _"When are we getting married? When? When? Erik, we have to get married! When are we getting married? _For God's sake, woman, let me breathe!" His chest heaved from the exertion of his anger as his mind finally caught up with his mouth. _What had he done?_

Christine stood up trembling, her head bowed, so that he couldn't see her reaction. "You're really going to pick a fight with me about this? _Really?_ Mr. 'I don't know how I feel, so I need to run away to fucking Amsterdam and not even let the woman who loves me know that I'm alright'? Well, fine! Let's fight! And if I don't have my voice back in a few for your bloody opera, then at least we all know whom to blame!" Christine screeched just as loud as Erik, before storming towards his bedroom door. She needed to go to her own room in order to think.

"Ever heard of an understudy, Christine?" Erik called out, receiving a few choice words in return, before she slammed his bedroom door. Groaning to himself, Erik flopped onto his bed, removing his mask once again. _Was he an idiot? _

…

A few hours later, Erik heard a soft knock on his door. Assuming that it wasn't Christine, from the way she had stormed out earlier, Erik opened the door cautiously, only to find his angel standing there.

"Christ—" Erik barely had time to say his beloved's name, before she flung her arms around him, kissing him quiet.

She moved away from him a moment longer. "I'm sorry about what I said earlier. I shouldn't have pushed you into setting a date, I just…I got worried. You didn't…" Christine began to fidget, before finishing her though. "You didn't mean all of those things that you said earlier, did you?"

Erik shook his head. "No I didn't. I'm…I apol—I'm sorry as well, angel," Erik responded just as quietly.

"I didn't mean what I said either, Erik. You just started attacking me, and I reacted without thinking."

"Come on in, angel, and we'll talk." Christine fidgeted for a moment before nodding and following her fiancé to his bed. Flopping onto the left side, Christine bit her lip, as she stared up at the man she loved. He smiled softly, as he felt her hands sliding the porcelain mask off from his cheek, before lying down on the open side of his bed.

Instantly, he felt Christine snuggling up to his side, and once comfortable, she asked, "So what do we do now?"

Erik sighed, turning on his side in order to see Christine better, before beginning to run his hand through her hair. "I think that once this assignment is over, we should do things properly; I don't believe now is a good time to try and plan a wedding," Erik said, explaining what he had thought through the few hours he had been alone.

"Oh…alright," Christine said, uncertainly, not knowing what else to say. She couldn't tell Erik it was for his own good that they set a date _now_, but what else could she do?

"However, I was thinking that for now, we could set the tentative date in the spring, and see how that works with our schedules…" Erik began, causing Christine's face to brighten. _Did he actually sit down and set a date? _"Or, I was also thinking we could just get married at City Hall with a few of our closer friends, and get this over and done with sometime next week. We can have a full wedding reception after this assignment is over."

Christine pounced on her fiancé, kissing him everywhere she could on his face, before hugging him furiously. "Thank you, Erik! God, I love you!" Christine exclaimed happily, giggling at the thought: she could become Christine Destler in a week! No paparazzi, no shouting fans—just a quiet ceremony. It was perfect!

Snuggling into Erik's chest, Christine closed her eyes happily, before suddenly sitting up on the bed, giving her fiancé a look. "I 'practically shoved you off the stage… _with_ _pies"_?


	21. Chapter Twenty

_Hello there,_

_So for everyone who has been waiting with held breaths on when the next chapter would be released, here it is! I'm so sorry for not posting anything more recently, however I had two weeks of midterms, and then Sandy hitting us did not help at all. For those of you who were at least looking for signs of M-rated material, here is the first. For those who are still reading this, and only comfortable at reading up to T-rated, I did add in three asterisks right before the scene-Just stop reading there completely. This chapter is unfortunately major fluff, but I feel it's also significant and necessary for their relationship, especially with how...passionate we know these two can get. Now that I've gotten everything back on track, you guys can expect a new chapter very soon! In fact, I'm working on the bulk of it later this evening. Also for those who didn't see, I did submit a one shot called "Obsession"-in order to help everyone gain a bit more understanding of the depth of Christine's feelings for the composer. Happy reading, darlings!_

_Ever yours,_

_**Soprano in Shadow** _

* * *

><p>Christine smiled to herself, humming softly, as she began to mentally make a list of everything that they would need for their upcoming nuptials. Purchase Meg's ticket to New York? Check. Ask Antoinette to walk her down…whatever aisle there would be? Check. Ask Firmin and Andre to be witnesses? Check. Set a date and time to go to City Hall? Check. Buy a white dress for the civil ceremony? Check. "Lightly" nudge Erik to ask Raoul to be his best man?<p>

…Still had to work on that one.

Christine could hardly believe that in five days, she would become the wife of Erik Destler—perhaps they were rushing into something too soon after only knowing each other for such a short period of time, but Christine didn't care. She had fallen in love with this man so long before even meeting him. Their tempers may be dangerous when set against the other, but the passion they held for each other was electrifying. But what would she become? Christine Destler—Mrs. Erik Destler. Christine frowned for a moment before letting a soft laugh escape her lips. Erik Daae—Mr. Erik Daae. Now _there_ was one name Christine knew that Erik would never accept. Perhaps it would be best for them to keep their own names?

Arms encircled the brunette's waist from behind interrupting her thoughts, and instinctively, Christine sharply elbowed the firm stomach behind her. Hearing a quick groan of pain, Christine ducked to the floor and kicked the man's feet off the ground. Rolling away, Christine grabbed the closest weapon she could, a house phone, when she heard a low growl. Jumping to her feet, Christine moved into a defensive position, only to see a flash of white.

"…Erik?" Christine paled. _Did she just attack her fiancé?_ Another growl met her one worded question, and Christine flinched. "Erik, are you ok? I'm sorry I didn't mean to hurt you," the young woman exclaimed.

Moving to stand up, Erik began to mutter to himself, before focusing his glare on his soon-to-be wife. "I'm not hurt! Bloody woman, all I was trying to do was be romantic. Thought it would be a nice change from attacking you," Erik snapped as he began to look for his mask, only to find it shattered. "Damn," Erik muttered to himself, "That was my only porcelain mask—it was a classic."

Christine brought her hand up in order to hide the smile forming on her face. Here she had been worried that she had hurt Erik's feelings by kicking him to the floor, and instead he was only concerned about his mask. Some men never changed.

"Works for me," Christine said happily, closing the space between them, "that's one less mask for me to deal with. You do know that all of those masks are next on my target list, right?"

Rolling his eyes at what he found to be her immaturity, Erik grunted in response as he bent down to grab the larger pieces of the fragmented mask. Perhaps he could glue them back together? Although it would no longer be usable, Erik could at least keep it as a memento—this mask had been his very first since he had begun assassination.

"Erik, if you're going to continue being stubborn about this, couldn't you at least use something a bit more…breathable? I mean, I'm sure the lab at the Organization could design something using fabrics that are more comfortable for the job," Christine suggested.

"Angel, while I do appreciate your…interesting ideas, the masks I have… I've created all of the ones I use by hand. However, if you insist on trying to force me into embracing something…newfangled, then…I suppose I could give it a try," Erik said hesitantly.

Christine laughed softly. "Newfangled? I knew you were old, darling, but really? _Newfangled?_" Growling in response, Erik wrapped one of his arms around the soprano and, pulling her closer to him, grabbed Christine's lips with his own. Christine brought her own arms up around Erik's neck, trying to get as close as she could to the man she loved. Did clothes really take up that much space between them?

They ended up on the bed, and somehow both shirts had been taken off, and as they both began making out like desperate high school students, Christine began to wonder if they would be able to last the next five days. Running her hands up and down her fiancé's toned upper body Christine couldn't help but emit a low groan, grinding her lower body against his own. Feeling his response, Christine grinned as she repeated the movement, receiving yet another growl from the man beneath her—but this growl was one of complete frustration.

"Christine…Angel…You need to… I need… Oh God!" Erik could barely string a single sentence together, his brain hardly able to comprehend what was happening. Grabbing the back of her head, Erik pulled the young woman's face back down to meet his own hungry lips, his tongue devouring the inside of her mouth. Her rib cage could barely contain her heart as it thumped away as quickly as it could, and Christine's eyes fluttered shut once more as she fell under the spell of Erik's kisses.

Erik wasn't sure how much longer he could resist tearing the remainder of Christine's clothes away from her trembling body. But they had promised each other to wait. Christine had insisted on at least one part of their wedding being traditional, wanting it to be special, and Erik had agreed. Despite both being seasoned agents, and neither inexperienced in the ways of sex, Erik had seen this as a chance for a clean slate.

_**(***)**_

That didn't mean that Erik couldn't dirty the slate a teensy bit more before then. Christine nearly gasped as she felt Erik's hand move below her stomach, and onto the clasp of her jeans.

"E-Erik, what…W-what are you…" Christine trailed off as her jeans loosened.

"Shhh, Angel. Trust me…" came his whispered response.

Christine felt one hand slide along her side, tracing the top of her jeans, while the other reached behind her back, working its way through the hook of her bra.

"I'm not breaking our promise to wait, but we happened not to mention anything about something…else…" Erik smirked as his hand freed the back of Christine's bra, then slowly slid around her until it encountered what it had been searching for.

"Well, it looks like this breast of yours wants me… it's pointing right at me," he said with a sly wink.

"…Oh, shut up, you—ohhh…" Christine's words trailed off as Erik squeezed her nipple between his fingers, rolling it back and forth as Christine's back arched with even the slightest motion of his fingers.

Christine hadn't even noticed that Erik's other hand had been slowly pulling the back of her jeans down, freeing them from her hips and leaving them loose on her legs. With his one hand massaging her breast, he let his other slide up her thigh until it hit the lacey edge of her black boyshorts.

"Erik…" The word floated distractedly past her lips.

Erik's hand slid smoothly backwards and grabbed Christine's left butt cheek. Her body quivered as she rolled her hips toward her unmasked fiancé, begging him on without uttering a single word.

Christine's head rolled back on her neck as she felt Erik's hand grab the front of her boyshorts, each squeeze sending a tremor up her spine. She was barely even aware that he still voraciously tasted the inside of her mouth.

Neither was she aware that her jeans had fallen past her ankles, with her panties not far behind.

There she lay on her bed, lips locked with her fiancé, completely naked on top of him. Or apparently now underneath him. Christine grabbed blindly at where she thought his pants must be, and received a particularly vigorous tongue-lashing from within her own mouth in response. Then she felt his hand slide down her stomach, past her belly button, over her freshly-shaven skin and…

"Uhh…Er…Uhhh…ik…Ohhh…Mmmmmm!..." Christine stammered, as every muscle in her body tensed at the feeling of his bare hand on her bare clitoris. Nothing else mattered now except for his fingers, circling her, flicking her quickly, covered in her own wetness.

Then Erik's other hand made its presence known again, squeezing her other breast, and giving her bare body even more tremors. Christine's abs were almost constantly tense, pushing her body even half an inch closer to his warm, pulsing fingers, moving faster and faster.

The kissing had stopped at some point, but it didn't even matter. All that did matter was that every single muscle in her naked body was tensing and releasing uncontrollably, reacting to Erik's touch, the warmth of his hand, the chill of his breath on her nipples. Erik stopped moving his hand and was careful not to breath on the woman beneath him, far more than content to just watch for a few moments. Once her body had just stopped pulsing with raw energy…

The warmth was back, warmer this time, stronger this time. Christine felt something more on her breast.

_Not a hand…no…tongue?..._ She thought through the fog in her mind.

Whatever it was, it was making her body shake constantly, vibrating to the movement of the warm, wet thing circling her nipple as something warm surrounded it and sucked on her breast, sending a chill throughout her body.

The feel of Erik's mouth devouring her breast and his hand caressing her vulva was too much, and Christine's raw body lost control again, even stronger than the first time.

Gasping for air, Christine tried to muster the concentration to think up the words she wanted to say to Erik, but she was too confused by why she couldn't feel his touch anymore. Gathering what little strength she had left, she managed to barely open a single eye just enough to watch the beginning of what happened next.

Christine wasn't really sure if she was watching a hotel movie, or if this was really happening to her body, but she just didn't care. Erik's arms slid under her thighs and grabbed her butt as he pulled her hips all the way to the edge of the bed, where he was now apparently kneeling.

Christine wanted to ask him what he thought he was doing, but never got the chance. With an indescribable look on his face, Erik poked his tongue just past his teeth for Christine to see, and reveled in the look of shock on her face, before lowering his neck down and engulfing her labia in his mouth, sucking on them and flitting his tongue between them.

Christine's eyes slammed shut as her legs flew up behind Erik's back and crossed, pulling his face in deeper. His tongue was now busy working its way between the wet folds of her labia up towards its prize, slowly, tantalizingly, desperately. Erik could feel his fiancée's muscles anticipating what would happen next, and let his tongue just barely flick over the surrounding skin for a minute before letting it drive in to Christine's clitoris, causing her bare naked body to quiver with its own personal earthquake. Her arms flew out to her sides as her hands grabbed huge swaths of the bed sheets, twisting them as her muscles tightened more and more, Erik's warm, wet tongue moving faster and harder all up and down her labia, making frequent stops at its favorite button to push.

Christine was biting her lip hard, trying not to let any sound escape her lips. Her breathing was erratic, her body uncontrollable, her mind completely blank. All that mattered was the mouth between her legs, making her feel more than she had ever felt in her entire life.

Erik's tongue flicking her clitoris, his fingers running between her breasts and her labia, the whole world melted away, making the bed nearly vibrate with her muscles' spasms. And just when she felt like her body couldn't take any more, she felt his hand keep moving farther than it had before, going deeper, spreading her labia apart, playing with them, swimming in the gush of wetness coming from inside her, and then—

Christine let out a scream as her entire body tightened at the feel of Erik's fingers shooting inside her vagina. Covered in her wetness, they had no trouble at all sliding in and out of her, each thrust drawing a moan past Christine's lips.

_This…is…Oh…my…How…_ Christine struggled to think at all.

"Ohhhh…hhhhh…hhhhh…mmm…mmy…"

Erik's warm tongue still spinning circles around Christine's clitoris, his fingers were now pressed deep inside her, pushing upward fast and hard. Christine's legs drew even tighter around her fiancé's back, begging for more. His tongue circling faster and faster, his fingers constantly pushing on her g-spot hard, his hand squeezing her breast and pulling at her nipple, Christine felt every slightest movement of his body against hers. Never had she been so fucking glad to be so completely unguarded like this. Never had she imagined that her Erik would want to do this to her, let alone enjoy it so much. Never had she dreamed that her third massive orgasm that night would leave her holding the two halves of a ripped bed sheet in each of her hands with her lover's face still buried deep in her vulva, enjoying himself as much as she was enjoying him, and going for number four.

At least.


	22. Chapter Twenty One

_Hello there,_

_Oh boy.. I apparently haven't uploaded anything new in about a month...so sorry to all of my regular followers, however the semester has just ended for me. Which means that I'll have approximately three weeks to get some new content up before I become stressed once again. I promise that I haven't forgotten to update. After that little citrus, it's been a bit difficult to think about where I wanted this story to go. _

_I'm not sure if FF {dot} com_ _alerts subscribers on chapter edits or not, however, I just wanted to let all of you know that I did add a scene to Chapter Sixteen that is a little important—it also smoothens out Chapter Seventeen and helps add some support to this one. Not as much fluff. I'm planning on backtracking a bit in the upcoming weeks, and adding some more client kills to the previous chapters before all of the drama—I feel as though I got so wrapped up in the tension between Erik and Christine, that I basically forgot about the main plot bit. My apologies for that, and I'll get right to it. Now that the semester is starting to wind down, I'm hoping that I'll be able to get much more writing in. I've edited about 2/3 of what I've written so far, however I haven't had the time to go in and actually make the edit online. Perhaps over this break I can get that done. Anyway, thank you to all of you who have been steadfast in following LDA, despite my choppy chapter submissions. Have a wonderful week!_

_Ever yours, _

**_Soprano in Shadow_**

* * *

><p>Erik stood up from his bed, grinning at the success of last night. They may not have taken things as far as they would have liked, but Christine seemed to have enjoyed herself. The poor woman had been so tense this past month after everything that had happened, Erik just couldn't help but…melt away the tension.<p>

However, he was still bothered. Despite no new bodies turning up at the precinct, or on the news, Erik's mind was still relentlessly pursuing ways to track down and kill Bouquet. The assassin's eyes gleamed with the anticipation of slowly killing the man who had ruined so much of his life. And hers, Erik quickly reminded himself. Shaking his head in order to clear his lust for blood, Erik knew that he couldn't deny the cold facts any longer: there was something wrong with him. What it was, he wasn't sure. But Erik had questions, and he knew exactly who would have the answers he needed.

Slipping on a pair of clean boxers briefs and then some sweats, Erik couldn't help but lean over and brush away the stray hairs that had somehow climbed onto Christine's face. She always looked so perfect—a sleeping angel who, in his eyes, could do no wrong.

'_But the wrongs that you could do _to_ her: why have her begging for more, when you could just have her screaming for mercy? Wouldn't that be much more…pleasurable?' _A voice whispered tauntingly in his frowned. That had come out of nowhere this time. This needed to be handled before it became uncontrollable.

Dropping a kiss onto her forehead before slipping on a navy blue sweater, Erik, closing the door behind him, walked down the hallway and knocked softly on the door to Antoinette's room. This threat had gone on long enough, and Erik wanted answers.

"Enter." The frostiness that laced Antoinette's normally calm voice caused Erik to pause for just a moment before entering his boss's master bedroom. The room was painted in cream and mint—dainty colors that seemed to take the edge off of the imposing _Madame. _A four-poster bed was tastefully made up, and silver accents helped give the room a more regal there, lounging on a day bed by her spectacular view of Manhattan, was Antoinette, dressed in a tailored grey pantsuit, who looked up from the papers that were piled in her lap, pen in hand.

"Ah, Erik. So you finally have the nerve to come and speak with me in private," Antoinette murmured softly, her eyes staring coldly back at his.

"Antoinette, enough. I have more than apologized to Christine for my actions, and I don't believe you deserve _any_ apology after keeping Christine's past…association with Bouquet." The elder woman huffed in response, before looking back at the papers on her lap.

Erik sighed, ruffling his hair in frustration, before plopping down into an armchair facing the older woman. Resting one ankle on his other knee, he leaned back, waiting pointedly for Antoinette to begin speak again. When she still continued to not acknowledge his presence, Erik knew that his current situation would trump his pride—if these lustful thoughts of blood were beginning to shred away his sanity, then it would be best to set his personal feelings aside.

"Fine, I… apologize for my rash actions. However, know that I am doing this because of my concern for Christine."

At the sound of her adopted daughter's name, Antoinette's attention was once more focused on the man sitting before her. "Why? What did you do?" Antoinette asked harshly, demanding to know why the composer was suddenly so concerned about his fiancée.

Erik flinched while attempting to reign in a biting response. Now was not the time to offend Antoinette: he would need all of the help that he could get.

"I haven't done anything…_yet_. But I'm…concerned about what I may do in the future," Erik said slowly, feeling slightly foolish about going behind Christine's back.

Antoinette arched an eyebrow. "Oh?"

Erik swallowed, fighting back the desire to pounce on the prim older lady and rip out her windpipe. A voice cackled wickedly in his mind, causing the composer to shake his head hurriedly as if that would alleviate the pain coming from the voice in his head. "I believe I may carry the same symptoms as _he_ did_,_" Erik said shortly, desperate to not speak the hated man's name. "I think I may be slowly going crazy—I don't want Christine to know…not yet. I-in case this is nothing. However, I am…aware that a certain person within the Organization specializes in these cases, and I would like him or her to come and…give me a checkup." Antoinette opened her mouth, as though about to speak, but Erik beat her to it. "However, I am placing rules that must be followed. First, if the Doctor _does_ diagnose me, then _I_ alone choose when I will quietly leave. Second, if there is even a small chance of recovery, I will be allowed to be rehabilitated where I choose. And third, if…when this happens…" Erik trailed off, unsure on how to word the remainder of his request.

"Yes?" Antoinette asked, urging him to continue.

"Christine is not to know about any of this. We will conduct the appointment with the Doctor when she is otherwise engaged, and no matter the turnout, she doesn't find out." Erik felt his heart clench at the thought of keeping so big a secret away from his fiancée. _But it needed to be done_.

Antoinette paused for a moment, before nodding slowly. "Alright, Erik. If that is what you wish. However if those are the stipulations you are going to require, then I have one of my own." Antoinette sat up, placing her papers on the foot of the day bed, before standing up and looking Erik square in the eye. "You will not marry Christine."

Erik felt as though he was drowning in ice-cold water as he painfully realized Antoinette's reasons behind it. If they were married, Christine would try to use that to save Erik who, if not in his right mind, could attack her. The mental hand on his heart closed painfully tighter, and Erik almost doubled over in pain. This pain was excruciating; the idea of having to emotionally hurt the woman he loved even more was unbearable. Although he knew why Antoinette would ask that of him, Erik couldn't understand _how_ she could ask it. Painfully, Erik nodded—his mind unable to form words into coherent sentences.

"Alright. Now that we have agreed on everything, I'm sure we can find an appropriate time to go in and see the Doctor. Would you prefer to go now, or another day this week?"

"The Doctor is…here?" Erik asked weakly. He didn't think that this would be occurring now—he thought he had at least several days before the good Doctor would arrive.

Antoinette nodded in response. "Oh yes. I contacted the Doctor myself after I realized Christine would not take the initiative," Antoinette said flippantly before returning to her day bed. A few clicks later, and Erik realized that he was being momentarily ignored in order for an email to be sent on her Blackberry. He didn't care; in his mind, all that he could hear in his head was that _she_ had known this whole time. Christine knew. As guilt began to flow through his veins, Erik felt the remainder of his emotions melt away as his sanity drifted into darkness, his mind blocking out the frantic tone of Antoinette's voice.

…

Christine stretched slowly, relishing the feel of tense muscles loosening as her bones shifted to accommodate the adagio movements. She felt warm and content, but above all, she felt loved in a way she had never been before. Sure she had enjoyed a fling or so throughout her career, but this…this was _real_. Turning on her side to greet her fiancé, she realized that she was the only one basking under the warmth of the sheets. Erik was nowhere to be seen. Sliding out of bed, Christine's initial thought was to search for a note, however after remember that she was naked as the cold air greeted her sensitive flesh, she decided that dressing herself would be her first act of the day.

Wrapping herself in Erik's bed sheet to create a makeshift toga, Christine opened the door, peering out into the hallway. Seeing no one there, Christine scurried down the hallway, determined to not be embarrassed due to her walk of shame. A soft click alerted her that she was no longer alone, and whirling around instinctively, Christine met her watchers: Andre and Firmin. Sighing in relief that it wasn't Antoinette, Christine bestowed a timid smile onto the two men; however neither of them was able to pay the slightest attention to the soprano. Their attentions were, in fact, solely focused on the resounding silence that was coming from Antoinette's room. Something was wrong—the _Madame_ was never this quiet.

Seeing that the couple was geared in Organization mode, the brunette instinctively crouched into a defense position as she silently drew out two of her needles. Forming a few code motions that Andre and Firmin recognized, Christine crept closer towards Antoinette's door. Twisting the doorknob quietly, Christine braced herself, prepared to make the first move; whoever was inside and thought that it was wise to attack the head of the Organization would surely die tonight.

Forcing the door open, Christine barged into the master suite of the apartment, only to find the room completely empty. _Where was Antoinette?_ As Andre and Firmin followed Christine into the vacant bedroom, her face paled as she took in the scene before her. Papers, presumably belonging to Antoinette, were strewn across the floor as though there had been a struggle. The day bed lay on its side, as though it had been sacrificed as a shield, its fabric pierced in several places by various daggers.

As Christine advanced towards the wounded piece of furniture, she gasped in recognition of one dagger that protruded from the pastel encased day bed. The dagger belonged to Erik…Did that mean that it was Erik who had attacked Antoinette? Had his bloodlust taken over once again? Christine knew that if he had indeed harmed the older woman, then Erik would have to be executed for his betrayal to the Organization. Tears began to flow from in Christine's eyes as the full magnitude of the situation dawned on Christine.

_Oh Erik, what have you done?_

…

Erik gasped as his consciousness once more took over. Noticing the chains that prohibited him from making any moves, and seeing Antoinette watching him worriedly, Erik tried to fight against his natural instincts to break free and escape. From his quick analyzation, he was chained to the wall of a basement, perhaps? However, thanks to the slack given by the chains, Erik was able to see that he was in fact being held in an abandoned subway route.

"Antoinette," Erik said her name in greeting, as he tried to remember the reason for his captivity. "May I safely presume that I am currently being held by the Doctor?"

Antoinette merely nodded in response, before glancing down at her phone in order to respond to something. She looked back up, as concern flashed through her eyes…but only for a moment.

"It seems your fiancée has been concerned about your whereabouts. Needless to say, after this afternoon's…shenanigans, I will let her know that it may be some time until your return to my apartment." Erik looked at her in confusion as Antoinette continued to speak, until he began to remember the events that had occurred during the past afternoon.

_As Erik's bloodlust began to take over, the masked man smirked at the older woman's face as it slowly began to drain of authority. The old hag knew when she was in trouble. Taking a step forward, the now-crazed Erik took a step forward, relishing in the freedom the usual Erik in charge. Gleefully, bloodlust-Erik realized that the man had armed himself for the day—his everyday daggers and shuriken were firmly braced on his belt. Sliding out the first dagger, Erik flipped it in the air, watching in satisfaction as the woman's face paled even more: he'd show the old bitch how sick he was of her controlling ways._

_Suddenly the blade was flying through the air; with a flick of his wrist, the masked man had hurled the dagger with a singular intent: to kill. Instinctively, Antoinette dived over the far side of the day bed she had previously been laying in—with the addition of her weight, the normally stable piece of furniture had toppled on its side, almost groaning at the feel of the dagger's blade embedded in its side. _

_Smirking, Erik's hands began to automatically feel for the two shuriken that followed next in the line of attack, before sending them whistling through the air—closely following were a pair of daggers. As Erik's hands fluttered between snapping the weapons into the air and gripping the next weapons on his belt, Antoinette closed her eyes in anticipation of feeling the harsh bite from a blade. Sooner or later…_

_A loud thud followed by silence met the old woman's paranoia, and cautiously Antoinette peered over the topmost edge of the day bed. Seeing that no one was presently standing, Antoinette moved to a crouch, slowly standing up until she could see that the masked assassin had fallen to the ground. Clicking her tongue a few times, Antoinette speed-dialed a number, waiting patiently for a response._

"_Doctor? Yes… You can come in now, Erik Destler is down. No, there is no need for extra back up, however we will need a stretcher."_

_A few minutes after Antoinette had spoken to the person on the other end, two men had come in, with a stretcher between them, followed by a tall young woman. Both women made eye contact, continuing on until the men had rolled an unconscious Erik Destler onto the stretcher. On a mumbled count to three, the men simultaneously lifted up their ends of the stretcher, as they followed the younger woman out of the apartment. _

_Antoinette huffed as she followed behind the Doctor, men and stretcher between them. She was getting too old for this. _

"…Needless to say that I require you in your best state of mind in order to capture Bouquet."

The man's name was like a shot through Erik's body, his mind snapping back to the present as his eyes began to flash angrily at the name of his nemesis. Antoinette stepped back into the shadows as another woman stepped forward. Erik's eyes widened in recognition and horror.

"No…You are supposed to be…How?" The woman merely smiled uncertainly at the masked man's broken protestations, as she began to examine the man held captive before her.

"Anything broken? Hallucinations?" the young Doctor asked quietly, before scrawling down a few notes on her clipboard. Erik shook his head feebly, trying to rid himself of the ghost that stood before him. "Do you remember your name?" The young woman asked.

Erik nodded his head slowly still in shock of who… or what stood before him. "Erik Destler," he responded quietly.

"Good. And do you remember mine?" Another slow nod came from the masked man who was chained to the wall.

"…Luciana."


	23. Chapter Twenty Two

_Hello there,_

_So, suffice to say, it has been quite some time since I published the last chapter. A thousand apologies. For all of you who do not know, this is actually my final semester of college. I've been burdened down with over 21 credits, an internship, job applying and Beta-ing. This has been a pretty grueling semester so far, and unfortunately there isn't much I can do about it. For those who have noticed that I put this story on hiatus, I have only done so because I honestly did not want to turn this into something that I **have** to post to every week. This story was supposed to remain a creative outlet for me, and I'm currently struggling in order to maintain that feel. Hopefully I will be able to post a follow-up chapter very soon. _

_Thank you to all of my loyal readers-I am so honored that each one of you are still keeping tags on my story. _

_Ever yours,_

_Soprano in Shadow_

* * *

><p>With a low groan, Erik woke to find himself no longer chained to the wall, but instead to the floor; at least his limbs were not required to hold him up. Feeling as though he were Prometheus, and Antoinette his Zeus, Erik couldn't help but feel a shiver of fear pass through his body. He had no idea how long he was to remain trapped below the New York subway system, but he wanted no part in it.<p>

It had been one hundred and sixty-eight hours since he had last seen the light of day. One hundred and sixty-eight hours since he had last held onto one shred of sanity. One hundred and sixty-eight hours since he had last seen his beloved Christine. And it had been one hundred and sixty-eight hours ago when Erik Destler had first realized that Luciana was alive…now it was one hundred and sixty-eight hours…and forty-two seconds.

Erik knew that the only way he had been able to keep track of time had been because of his particular skills—he wasn't a prodigy without reason. Slowly memories from this past week began to filter back to his mind. _They had injected him with drugs! _What was he, a science project? Gritting his teeth, Erik knew that Antoinette owed him some answers… and a decent meal. Erik recoiled as he moved his head and was suddenly met with hard ground. Feeling the ground to the left, Erik snorted in realization. A pillow? Antoinette was getting soft.

Footsteps echoed the passageway interrupting his thoughts, and soon the two women were within Erik's limited area of sight. A thought of dread reached his mind, and anxiously, he reached up and was relieved to find his mask had survived the storm of interrogations.

As flashes of the emotional torture that Antoinette had delivered flitted through his mind, Erik let out a warning growl while trying to inch away from the pair of females as much as possible. Antoinette shook her head slowly, as if disappointed with what Erik was slowly becoming.

"Oh Erik," Antoinette sighed. "Why couldn't you have just listened to Christine? Why fight us this past week? Do you have no human dignity left?"

Erik opened his mouth as though to deliver a particular snide response, but found that he had no voice. His throat was completely worn from use—it seemed as though the monster in his mind had decided to make good use of his body. Sighing, the other woman freed his hands from the floor chains in order to give him a vat of cold water to drink from.

The water was like a kiss from heaven: cool and crisp. He closed his eyes in appreciation—he would never take a drink of water for granted again. Quickly it began to ease the discomfort of his throat, as if washing away whatever actions this past week. Shakily, Erik hurried to rejuvenate his tired voice muscles, while trying to keep from choking at the same time.

"Take it easy, Erik," She murmured soothingly, as her hand seemed to hesitate before finally landing on Erik's shoulder. Eyes narrowed, Erik scrambled away from her as much as the chains would allow him, his eyes studying both women intently as he continued to drink. Focusing in on Luciana's cheek, he noticed a long scratch running from her cheekbone to chin, before relevant memories sprang into his mind. Her cry of alarm, when the monster had attacked in anger, echoed throughout his mind as his beloved Christine's face flashed through his mind, her eyes disapproving. Erik winced in pain from the aftereffects that the drugs delivered—he had never been on the receiving end of this drug before, although he had heard of its severity.

"My… fault?" Erik asked and hesitantly, after a solemn nod from Antoinette, the woman shakily nodded. "I'm…sorry." Erik struggled through the dust and other dirt, which had made it to his throat, in order to say those four simple words.

"You were not in control, Erik. You have nothing to apologize for," was all he received in the form of a quiet response. Erik nodded quietly in acceptance before focusing in on Antoinette, as he finished up the vat of water.

"More… please," Erik requested. Antoinette nodded her consent, and the Doctor moved forward slowly as if afraid this was a trap. Alarmed, Erik searched his mind for the other presence, but surprisingly found none. "He is… gone," Erik said steadily. The woman quickly moved forward and gently took the empty pitcher from his grasp.

"Take your time, Doctor. Erik and I have much we need to speak about." Luciana nodded slowly, not walking away before sending one last look of unsure pity towards the chained man.

Antoinette moved closer towards her fallen protégé, taking in the lines of anger and resentment that were drawn on his face.

"I had no choice, Erik. You were out of control. You need to understand that once you attacked me, I could no longer leave the decision to Christine. She loves you too much to ever hurt you." The anger that was boiling beneath his skin settled as Erik nodded in understanding; he knew that this was nothing personal. If one of Antoinette's best agents went down, the woman would do anything in her power to help them unless there was no better option but to execute. Being on several of those assignments in the past, Erik had remembered exactly how the men and women had looked: crazed throughout the chase, but then in that last second before the blade hit skin their humanity and fears returned, begging for mercy. They seemed to only have a moment or two of sanity, but by then death was imminent and swift.

"Thank you," Erik said hoarsely. "What has Christine been told?" Erik asked, curiosity forcing him to ask.

Antoinette shrugged. "I have had no contact with Christine since this…incident has occurred—nor do I plan to do so until this problem is resolved," Antoinette said steadily. Nodding again, Erik tried to focus on the flashes of moments from this past week, before pinpointing a certain one.

"You had me drugged."

"Yes I did, Erik. I see you're ready to speak with me rationally now. It was necessary in order to subdue your sanity, and instead work with… the other you," Antoinette explained shortly.

"What information have you gathered?" Erik asked slowly, still processing everything that had been happening.

"It seems as though the best plan will be to keep you here until Joseph Bouquet has been found, then send you out to deliver justice. From what I can tell, that should solve your specific case."

"And then? What happens after?" Erik asked cautiously, his hope slowly beginning to rise and piece back together.

"That, Erik, is completely up to you. However, if you love Christine has fiercely as you claim, then you better pray that my theory is correct." Footsteps once more resounded in the damp area and, both figures tensed until finally seeing whom it was. "I think I will leave you the two of you to your own devices—I'm sure the both of you have unresolved matters to speak about."

The Doctor moved forward in order to offer him more water, and eagerly, Erik snatched the refilled pitcher from her and began to guzzle it down greedily. As he glanced up, he caught the woman's eye, and images from the past began to swarm his mind. Slowly he lowered the pitcher down to study the woman before her.

She was exactly like he had remembered: dark brown hair, bewitching violet eyes and dark lips. Her skin was lighter than he remembered, but Erik was sure that it must have had something to do with the necessary restructuring of her body.

"How?" The woman sighed as she sat down on the cold floor in front of him, legs to the side. "How are you still alive?" Erik asked weakly as feelings from the past began to rise up.

"Erik," the woman before him seemed to hesitate, as though unsure of what to say. In all honesty, the Doctor wasn't sure what there was to tell him. "The past is irrelevant, Erik. There is nothing left in life if you're continuously hanging back, caught up in the shadows of the past. I made that mistake once before, I held so much anger… I wasn't sure if I would be allowed to be near you. Yet, so much love still. After all that you have put me through…" the Doctor murmured quietly, as though in wonder of her own words.

"How long did the surgeries last?"

"Surgeries? There were none." The response was simple yet left so many answers. No one could survive a drop from a five-story building. On top of that, no one could just get up and walk away from that kind of fall. As he began to piece together the puzzle, his eyes lit up in realization.

"Chiara." Slowly the woman nodded in confirmation. Suddenly Erik wondered how it was that he could have mistaken Chiara for her twin sister. Although identical twins, each held their own beauty: Luciana had never been seen without makeup, whereas Chiara, whom Erik had met briefly, stayed natural—a look that Erik realized he preferred. Luciana had exaggerated her beauty, while Chiara had allowed her natural beauty to blossom and flower. She held within her the same beauty that his beloved Christine had.

"I was wondering how long recognition would take. Although for the past week, you have been projecting my dead sister onto me, and that in itself is probably because of your initial thought upon first seeing me. I just needed to wait and let time take its course. However, now… that it has, I almost prefer when you thought I was Luciana."

"How was the…" Erik almost felt guilty for asking.

"The funeral? It went well. Papa died from grief shortly afterward, but she always was his favorite. Everyone's favorite, it seemed," Chiara added after glancing at him.

"And after? How did you become…this?"

"How did I become the good Doctor, you mean? Well, _Madame_ approached me after attending the funeral. She explained to me that what had occurred was no one's fault, and that you and my beloved sister were not meant to be. She also explained to me your history with a Mr. Bouquet."

Erik growled, "That is highly classified information!" the chained man snapped causing Luciana to slide away from him slowly.

"Erik." Still, Erik growled lowly, his eyes narrowing in anger. "You need to calm down, Mr. Destler, before your bloodlust takes over. Remember who you are."

"No!" Erik struggled against his chains in anger, as Chiara backed away once more.

"Erik, please. Remember your fiancé." Imagining his beautiful angel before him, Erik began to settle down after her quiet request, trying to remember that any sudden bouts of agitation on his end would most likely result in a lengthier time away from Christine. "As I was saying," Chiara once more began, "I was already studying the human mind, and when _Madame_ offered this opportunity, I couldn't say no. Thanks to the funding given to me by the Organization, I have collected enough research that would have originally taken five years or even more. I've been developing a medication that will hopefully save more agents rather than kill them, however it's still in the works.

"There is so much that I can do with this power—so much that I can change in order for less people to be harmed by the side effects of this career. I also knew that in due time, this job would lead me back to you. We were meant to see each other again, for the circle to finish its course and return back to us. I was sent here to help you in order for you to complete your own goals."

Erik studied her, amazed. He barely remembered Luciana's twin sister; she had always been so shy, always feeling embarrassed and uncomfortable with her accomplishments when compared to Luciana. Chiara had always stayed hidden in Luciana's shadow, but now that her sister was gone, Chiara had blossomed and learned how to be proud of her success. He wasn't suggesting that it was a blessing for Luciana to be gone, however it had not only led to his future nuptials with Christine, but it had given Chiara her freedom.

"I truly am sorry for the pain I caused you and your father, Chiara. I had never meant to hurt her. I tried to stop her from looking but…" Erik trailed off, looking down as though embarrassed. He tried again. "I'm not proud of my past with and before Luciana, however, I can tell you now that I am becoming a different man because of Christine Daae."

A moment of pure sadness washed through Chiara's face, before she smiled once more. There was nothing more to be said between them, she told herself bitterly. Now she knew that her pitiful attempts at catching the handsome masked man's attentions, when he had been working with her sister, had been futile. She could now see that he had always been destined for this Christine Daae, and unfortunately she and her sister had gotten caught up on Erik's journey from Point A to Point B.

"I cannot lie and say that I didn't hold bitter feelings towards you, however throughout the years, as I have spent time studying the human mind, I've realized that her death was bound to happen. If not be accident, then at an enemy's hands. I'm only grateful that she had never been tortured or seen the horrors that I have seen," Chiara said, shuddering. "Luciana was never meant to see the evils of the world, only the purity of it."

Erik nodded slowly in agreement, as he studied the young woman before him. "So what happens now, Chiara? Antoinette mentioned that I would be kept here. What about Christine? I have plans of settling down with her once Bouquet has been taken care of. What will I be doing while waiting?"

Chiara paused for a moment, considering his questions. "Well from what _Madame_ has told me, you become restless very quickly. However, we cannot just let you leave here—no matter how much you love your fiancé, you are still a danger to her. We need to run more tests to gain a clearer picture on what affects your bloodlust, so the next few day will most likely be rather uncomfortable for you. That's the best I can tell you at the moment, Erik."

She turned to leave before Erik's voice reached her ears. "Chiara, if possible I would like a favor."

"It depends on what this favor is, Erik. Your rights are very limited at the moment," Chiara said slowly, as she studied the man before her.

"At least allow me to speak with Christine, and ease her mind. Knowing her, Christine is most likely running her contacts mad trying to find me. And I don't think she will take the news well from Antoinette."

Chiara hesitated for a moment, uncertainty flashing across her face, before shaking her head slowly. "I'm sorry, but I cannot allow you any access to outside communication without the approval of _Madame_."

Silently Erik nodded, understanding the position that Chiara had been placed in. As she left the assassin to his thoughts, Erik looked out into the dark tunnel of the abandoned subway station with only one simple plea in mind.

_Christine, please forgive me._


End file.
